


via dolorosa

by Please_Tommy_Please



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Camping, Feelings™, Fluff, Frypan's almond oil, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Humor, Hurt Thomas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Oblivious Thomas, Road Trips, Sarcasm, Slow Build, Smut, Sonya's middle name is Elizabeth and Newt calls her Lizzy, Violence, Zombies are called Cranks, the virus is called the Flare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 00:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 81,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13353021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Please_Tommy_Please/pseuds/Please_Tommy_Please
Summary: via dolorosa- (noun)  a distressing or painful journey or process; literally 'painful path'The Outbreak of the Flare destroyed the world and most of the human population almost one year ago.Thomas, an Immune, is on the run, alone after his friends Teresa and Aris abandon him. He’s found by Minho and joins his survival group that includes Alby, Chuck, Fry, Newt, and others. Embarking on this survival from Cranks, Thomas's journey is filled with pain, loss, and more love than he could have ever hoped for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to give a special thanks to everybody who helped me complete this fic! Particularly to the discord (I love you all).
> 
> A very special thanks to Anne, who made these amazing posters! Do check them out, they're amazing:  
> http://your-local-geek.tumblr.com/post/174761814093/minimalist-posters-inspired-by-tmr-newtmas-fic

Teresa is sorting through their remaining supplies. Aris hasn’t stopped crying. No one’s seen Rachel since the attack on their camp four hours ago.

Thomas himself feels like curling up into a ball in the corner of the hotel room they’re holing up in and shutting out the world.

They’d only just settled into their last base—a Wendy’s restaurant that apparently had too many windows—when the horde of Cranks attacked. Thomas had anticipated a few days until the herd of dead reached the outskirts of the city. He’d miscalculated. And they lost Rachel because of it.

 _She could've gotten out_ , he argues with himself, pacing the small room (a double queen that had been ransacked long ago). And yes, while it’s possible that she _did_ escape, it’s improbable. The only weapon she’d had on her, aside from the dagger zipped in her backpack, had been a small pistol with little ammunition.

The odds she somehow got out are slim; so slim, in fact, that the group has pretty much pronounced her dead.

Aris’s sobs are beginning to diminish in volume, though the quaking of his shoulders doesn’t let up. Thomas is hesitant in his approach towards the other boy. He walks over to him, clearing his throat before crouching down next to Aris.

“Hey, Aris,” he begins quietly. “I-I know that…that you’re upset, and I understand—”

Thomas is interrupted by an enraged snarl, and before he can react, Aris manages to punch him in the cheek with enough force to send Thomas sprawling from the blow. The yelp that escapes his mouth is as much from pain as it is from surprise. For a little guy, Aris sure packs a powerful punch. It hurts bad enough to make Thomas’s eyes water.

Aris springs to his feet, and Thomas looks up to see fury blazing in his eyes. “You don’t _understand_ ,” he spits, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides. “It’s _your_ fault! She’s dead, and it’s _all your fault_ , Thomas!”

Aris continues to scream abuse at him. Thomas rises to his feet, muscles tensing. He’s prepared to defend himself, but he isn’t about to strike back. Aris’s anger is justified, after all. Thomas has just never seen the boy so livid.

“Are you even listening?” Aris lets out a humorless laugh. “Course not. You don't know how to. Maybe if you did, you'd have _listened_ to me when I said your stupid ‘calculations’ were off! Maybe if you’d have _listened to me_ , Rachel would still be alive!”

Something in Thomas snaps. Disregarding his previous thought about how he wouldn’t hit back, he lunges forward and grabs Aris by the front of his jacket, twisting and slamming the boy into the wall with enough strength to wind him, a loud _bang_ resounding at the impact of Aris’s back against the plaster.

“Shut your damn mouth!” Thomas says. Aris’s eyes, wide from his collision with the wall, narrow at him.

A flash of movement and Thomas shifts to the left just fast enough to avoid what would have been an agonizing blow to the groin. Instead, Aris’s knee connects with Thomas’s inner right thigh. The impact hurts, but not as much as it could have. Regardless, Thomas takes a reflective step back, his hold on Aris loosening. Aris slips free from his grasp.

The anger in his eyes is so fierce that he looks insane. It’s enough for Thomas to feel a brief spark of fear, one that quickly dissipates. It isn’t as if Aris would try to kill him or anything.

With a furious shout, Aris launches himself at Thomas, knocking him to the floor and landing on top of him, and they somehow manage to avoid hitting the bedpost on the way down. Aris’s method of fighting is dirty and unprincipled. He lashes out with all of his limbs, landing kicks and slaps and punches wherever he can manage. 

Thomas blocks as many of the hits as he can. One particular strike to the jaw is hard enough for Thomas’s teeth to clack together painfully, with a fleeting wave of relief that he hadn't bitten down on his tongue.

Aris’s kicks halt as he sits up, straddling Thomas’s hips. His hands snake up to Thomas’s throat, wrapping around and squeezing tightly. Thomas instinctively inhales, choking and beginning to panic when he realizes just how little air he can breathe in. Gasping, he raises his hands to smack at the other boy, grabbing at his forearms to pry him off, but Aris is strong and pressing all of his weight into it while Thomas is slowly losing his strength. Fuzzy blackness begins to creep into the edges of his vision.

While he certainly has some muscle to him, Aris is a lanky boy. He weighs less than Thomas. And all of his weight is centered over his arms. Enough so that Thomas is able to thrust his hips upwards and dislodge Aris, unbalancing him. The boy tips to the left. Not a whole lot, but it’s enough.

Thomas takes advantage of Aris’s momentary unsteadiness by pressing up, knocking the boy the rest of the way off balance. Thomas, dizzy from the sudden influx of oxygen, rolls him over, the action reversing their positions, leaving Thomas with his weight entirely seated on the lankier boy’s hips. Aris seems to realize he can’t just buck up and throw Thomas off the way he'd just done. Aris, face twisted into a scowl, begins to move his arms, but Thomas swiftly has them pinned to the ground, head throbbing and eyes watering with every pained cough that tears its way from his lungs. He glares at Aris.

“Get _off_ me!” Aris yells. Before Thomas can say or do anything else, a set of hands are grabbing him by his biceps, yanking him off of Aris.

“You both need to knock it off!” Teresa shouts, not releasing her tight grip on Thomas’s arms, not even when Aris surges to his feet and Thomas continues coughing. “You’re going to attract Cranks if you don't shut up!”

Teresa still doesn't let go. Clearly, she's more concerned about the damage Thomas could do to Aris, despite the latter having been the one to _start_ the argument. A spark of satisfaction curls in his stomach, and he doesn't bother hiding the smug smile that twitches at his lips. If Aris notices it, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he huffs and haughtily strides over to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Teresa takes her hands away from Thomas. The adrenaline from the fight floods out of him, allowing his injuries to be known. His cheek aches. When he leans down to rub his thigh where Aris had jammed his knee, he can already feel the knot beginning to form. His jaw throbs terribly when he moves it. None of this including the pounding in his head and soreness of his throat. He winces.

His bottom lip stings, and when he runs his tongue over it, he not only feels the split, but tastes blood.

“Christ, Tom…” Teresa sighs, shaking her head, and crouches down to sift through her backpack. She pulls out an old rag and dampens it with a bit of water from her canteen. When she wipes it across his lip, he must show some sort of discomfort, because Teresa lightens up the pressure, dabbing the rag against his torn lip and sponging it down his chin to wipe away any remaining blood.

“Thanks,” he says, the sound coming out much quieter than he’d anticipated, his voice nearly gone. He begins to feel the first tingle of embarrassment. It isn’t as if he _wanted_ to get into a fight with Aris. Despite the childishness of the words, more than anything, Thomas wants to say, ' _he started it_ '. But he doesn’t. Instead, voice hoarse, he says, “I’m sorry.”

Teresa says nothing in response to his apology. The room falls silent, aside from the faint moans and snarls coming from outside or in the hallway.

“Thomas, I…I’ve been thinking,” Teresa begins after the long pause. Her voice is hesitant, and Thomas hasn't heard her use his full name for quite some time. It worries him.

“What about?”

“Well, I think…I think we should go back to WICKED,” she blurts. Thomas freezes, body tensing, and steps away from her.

“ _What_?” he says. Teresa’s eyes shine glassily, with desperation and pleading and a sadness Thomas hadn't expected to see.

"Th-they treated us well, Tom, and Aris and I have been talking, and—”

“Are you fucking _serious_? ‘Treated us well’? Teresa, _we almost died in there_.”

“For a good cause! They’re only trying to engineer a cure!”

Thomas scoffs. “There is no cure. If there was, they'd have found it by now. It’s been a fucking _year_ since the apocalypse started. No, WICKED uses the _idea_ of a cure as an excuse to kill and test on people and deem it morally okay. They kidnap and lure people in by saying it’s safe from Cranks, and then don't let anyone leave! You were there when we escaped. The only reason we even _got_ out is because the guards were distracted by the group of Cranks that slipped through security.”

“It’s government-authorized, Tom!” Teresa bristles, suddenly agitated. “And they’re only doing what they have to!”

“Okay, so they’re military-based. And?” Thomas says, his thready rasp of a voice beginning to strengthen as he continues to speak. He clears his throat and continues. “It _isn’t safe_. Even if they _weren’t_ experimenting on people, there’s still starvation from such small rations, there’s the riots, the fact that you can’t leave! It’s pretty much a mass prison. Sure, there aren't Cranks, but honestly, the Infected are easier to deal with than people who actually have _some_ intelligence. Not to mention, Aris and me and you and Rachel all nearly died there, once they realized we were immune and tried experimenting. There are other Immunes. Let WICKED test on _them_.”

“Tom…”

“No, Teresa. We’re not going back there. We put that camp behind us months ago. Besides, even if we _wanted_ to go back, it’d take forever. There’s no way we’re going back to that hellhole. It’s not gonna be any better now than it was before; worse, probably.” Thomas pauses, rubbing his eyes. “Look, we’re in Auburn. We’re _miles_ from Chicago, and you want to backtrack? No way. Any other Quarantine Zone, but not them.”

“Most Quarantine Zones have fallen already, Thomas! Just think about it—”

“No.” Thomas shakes his head, a tiny cough escaping his mouth. Despite Teresa being the oldest and Rachel close behind her, Thomas somehow got voted to be the leader of their little group. He thinks they must be regretting that choice now. Still, he stands his ground. “Not happening, sorry.”

All of the fight, the pleading, and determination, has fled from her. Teresa, eyes dulled, sighs and nods.

“…Okay,” she finally allows. “Okay.”

* * *

_Thomas struggled to see over the bobbing heads of the crowd. Chancellor Ava Paige, the leader of the sanctuary, was speaking to everyone in the safe camp, but Thomas couldn't hear her over the murmuring of nearby voices._

_“What did she just say?” asked a man in front of Thomas._

_“They’re trying to make a cure,” answered the woman next to him._

_“We have provided you with safety and food,” Ava’s voice boomed, loud enough for a fifteen-year-old Thomas to hear. “As payment for this, you will allow us to use_ you _in our search for a cure.”_

_"What if we leave? Then we don't owe you nothin’!” Thomas tried to see who spoke, unable to past the swarm of heads of people taller than him._

_Ava’s right-hand man, A.D. Janson, loudly replied. “Well, I’m afraid leaving isn't an option. You see, you needed our help, and now we need yours. Whether the assistance comes voluntarily or not is up to your cooperation.”_

_That’s when it began. People, men and women alike, began to shout angrily at the chancellor. Many started shoving their way through the audience, heading for the only exit in the camp: the gated opening in one of the walls surrounding the faction._

_Then came the gunfire. Bullets sprayed the ground, taking out anyone who dared walk towards the gate. This, of course, not only frightened everyone but enraged them. They began fighting, not just guards and officials, but each other. Thomas found himself lost in a sea of angry, terrified people._

_Bodies started to drop around him, the sounds of screams and firing guns echoing in the air. Thomas clasped his hands over his ears. He got shoved backward by some man. Seconds later, the man’s body was joining the others on the ground, his sightless gaze locked on Thomas as blood poured from the hole in his temple._

_Thomas screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed._

* * *

He’s screaming when he wakes up. He sits up so fast from where he's lying on the hotel bed that he becomes momentarily dizzy. The screaming certainly didn't do his already-damaged throat any good. His mouth is dry as sandpaper, his throat raw from the shouting. He needs water.

Before doing anything else, however, Thomas listens. His yells have attracted Cranks, and he can hear a few snarling in the hallway, scraping at the room’s door and attempting to get in. Luckily, Thomas, Teresa, and Aris had found out the door had an intact lock. They haven't barricaded it yet, but Thomas figures they’ll do it today.

Satisfied, Thomas swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, stretching his arms and twisting his head from side to side to work out the stiffness in his neck as he sits back down and pulls his pack over towards him. He tugs it up onto the bed and leans it against his side. He unzips the bag, pulls out his canteen, and takes a sip of water. The coolness soothes his sore throat, and he has to force himself to pull the container away from his lips.

Can’t drink it _all_ in one go.

“Teresa?” he calls, a raspy croak that hurts his throat. Silence answers him. Thomas frowns, looks around. The hotel room is rather simple. There are no separate rooms, aside from the small kitchenette around the corner and the bathroom. Neither Aris nor Teresa are anywhere within sight.

“Teresa? Aris?” His voice cracks when he tries to raise it. He grimaces and clears his throat, setting his canteen back in his bag and zipping it shut. He leaves it on the bed and stands up. “Guys?”

 _Maybe they went out on a supply run_ , he thinks.

 _No, we’re stuck in this room. And not with the horde so close by, there’s no way. And they wouldn't_ both _go, one of them is supposed to be keeping watch_ , his rational mind argues, and he walks around the corner of the hotel room to the kitchenette.

“Teresa, where the hell…” he trails off, noticing the thin strip of paper on the countertop. It’s pinned down by an unopened can that’s missing its label. Frown deepening, Thomas moves the can, lifting the note up to his face. It’s written in Sharpie. Teresa is the only one Thomas knows who carries one of those around.

 

**Tom,**

**I’m really sorry about this. I tried so hard to convince you that we should go back to Chicago. But in the end, it was your choice.**

**By the time you read this, Aris and I will already be gone. We left your backpack with some food and medical supplies in it and your gun. Aris even left behind some of his ammo for you. It should be next to your gun.**

**Chances are you’ll never see us again. I’m sorry this had to happen. You might not think so, but WICKED is safe, Tom. WICKED is good. **

**Goodbye, I’ll miss you,**

**Teresa** **~~and Aris~~ **

 

Thomas crinkles the paper in his fist, staring at the unlabelled can sitting on the counter. Anger at their betrayal boils in his veins. He scowls. His fingers itch to rip the note to shreds.

He doesn’t.

He stuffs the paper into his pocket and looks around. The hotel room feels a hell of a lot bigger with no one else in it. Thomas walks over to the bed he slept on. Beside it is a stained, wooden bedside table. Lying on top is his pistol, where he placed it before going to sleep. And next to it, which hadn't been there before, but he somehow didn't notice earlier, are twelve bullets.

He sighs and tucks the extra bullets into his backpack. Outside, through the closed glass door leading to the tiny balcony, he can hear the sounds of Infected roaming around. The moans aren’t particularly loud, though, which leads Thomas to think the horde hasn't yet gotten there. A quick look out the glass proves it.

 _But that doesn't mean they won’t soon_ , he thinks. _No, better not to risk it. Get whatever Teresa and Aris might have missed lying around and get the hell out of here._

Thomas does just that. He searches the room, but comes up with nothing of use besides the clean fitted sheets off the mattress he slept on—there hadn't been any blankets—and a ratty, but clean, towel from the bathroom.

As he goes into the bathroom to look around, he catches his image in a mirror above the sink. The mirror has a few bloody smears on it, but not enough to hide his reflection from himself.

He looks worse than he expected he would. His left cheekbone is sporting a huge bruise of purple and red, and it looks as if it isn’t even at it’s worst yet. The colors are smudging under his left eye, and, when he gently prods around the area, the ache reaches up to his eyebrow. One of Aris’s knuckles must’ve caught him higher up than Thomas had thought previously. _At least it isn’t swelling, that’s good._

It’s when his eyes fall to his neck that he falters. His throat is mottled with dark splotches of red and darkening bruises. In the shape of fingers. Aris really had been trying to kill him.

Thomas looks away from his multicolored neck. Combine that injury with the one stretching across his cheekbone and the bruise on his jaw, he looks like he certainly took a beating. His split lip, which appears slightly swollen, doesn't help.

Thomas tears his eyes away from his abused reflection, grabbing the towel and leaving the bathroom. He goes straight to the kitchenette.

Thomas takes the unlabelled, unopened can that Teresa had used as a paperweight back to the bed and shoves it into his pack, along with the towel. The fitted sheets, however, won’t fit into his crammed bag. He ends up ripping the sheets, keeping the elastic along the outside and a small bit of the actual fabric.

Thomas slips his arms back into the straps of his pack, tightening said straps to lower the chance of the bag slipping off somehow. He lifts his Glock and tucks it into his waistband. He zips up his dark grey hoodie. When he’d found the jacket, a few months prior, it initially had a hood sewn in, but he cut it off to eliminate the hazard of a Crank grabbing him that way.

Checking that he isn’t forgetting anything, Thomas stands in the middle of the room, feeling small in the intimidating, sinister city.

 _Time to go_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Attempted rape in this chapter! Please read with caution.

Getting out of the building isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Thomas is forced to leave through the hotel room’s front door, the only possible exit from the room. There is, of course, the balcony, but the drop is too far, what with the room being on the second floor of the complex; he’d break his arm or leg, if not his neck. Not to mention the Cranks that would swarm him before he could get up. No, the front door is the only option.

 _Must be the way Teresa and Aris left._ If they can get out this way, assumedly without trouble, then so can Thomas. He prepares himself, body tensing, as he slowly pulls down the handle and pushes open the door, inch by inch. The door is soundless as Thomas presses it open. He peers into the corridor.

Two Cranks are blocking the hallway to Thomas’s left. Thomas’s heart jolts for a second, but then he realizes that, no, they aren’t Teresa and Aris. They are, in fact, probably the ones who his screaming had attracted earlier that morning. The Infected crouch over something on the carpet, something that Thomas can’t see. The chewing and smacking sounds of wet flesh are enough that he doesn’t _want_ to see. 

Grimacing in disgust, Thomas turns to look the other way. The hallway to his left is completely void of Cranks or any evidence of Infected activity. If Thomas were to ignore the tearing and gurgling coming from the other way, he could almost convince himself he’s just in a normal hotel.

Thomas pushes the thought away. Thoughts like that tend to either depress him or catch him off guard, both of which he cannot afford right now. He slips out of the room, leaving the door open as he jogs down the corridor. The carpet muffles his thumping footsteps, but they still seem far too loud.

The hallway comes to a dead end. On the wall is a large window, pouring in light. Thomas glances outside but doesn't get a long enough look to see anything out of the ordinary. Well, as out of the ordinary as it can be in the apocalypse.

To his left is a set of elevators. Thomas doesn't even bother to entertain the idea of using one of those. Thankfully, he doesn't have to. Across from the elevators is a door, propped open with a wooden door-stopper wedge, leading to a stairwell. Thomas wonders if Teresa and Aris left the door propped open this way intentionally, since they clearly had to have left this way.

Deciding not to worry about it, wondering won’t really answer the questions buzzing through his mind, he begins his descent down the flights of stairs. He avoids crusty puddles of dried blood and, on the first landing, a body so mutilated it’s practically a pile of flesh in clothing. Thomas stops, hesitates on whether to search the body, but finds he can’t do it. Stomach churning dangerously at the decaying smell and droning flies, he continues down the stairs, a bit faster now.

He reaches the bottom of the staircase with relative ease, huffing in frustration when he notices that the door in front of him has no window, and therefore, he has no warning about Cranks in the main lobby. Thomas presses his ear against the metal door, tensing at the sudden coolness against his bruised cheek.

When he hears no sound at all, he presses his ear a bit harder into the metal—but to no avail. The door is just too thick to hear through. Thomas frowns and pulls his lower lip in between his teeth, momentarily forgetting his split lip and the tenderness. He winces as he bites down, and he releases his lip, mentally cursing the subconscious habit he’s built over time. He settles instead for combing his hand through his hair in agitation. Greasy strands slide between his fingers. His hair is getting too long. It’s shaggy, bangs tickling his eyebrows and strands curling around his ears; he needs it cut.

With a slightly shaky exhale of breath, Thomas lowers his left hand from his hair to the door handle and uses his right to pull out his Glock, finger hovering over the trigger. He twists the door handle, pushing the door open slowly. After about an inch, he stops and presses his face against the crack, peering out with one eye. He can see a few bodies on the floor, but they are the same unmoving bodies that had been there when he, Teresa, and Aris arrived. Thomas listens.

Nothing. Nothing except the faint snarling of Cranks outside. Thomas steps a half-step back and presses hard against the door, sending it swinging open. He holds his pistol at the ready, body tensing in preparation for a possible attack. There is, after all, no telling if an Infected is hiding on the other side of the door. The door hits the hotel wall with a dull thud. Thomas remains tense, but nothing happens.

He steps out into the lobby, tensed and ready to run.

Thomas slinks over to the receptionist desk and ducks down behind it. He peeks up, conflicted as whether to exit through the front or try through the back emergency door just down the hallway. The thing about the front doors, is they’re made of glass (albeit, broken glass), and he can see through them. A small group of Cranks stagger and shuffle around outside those front doors. There aren’t too many. Maybe six or seven, and none are extremely close to the doors. Thomas could probably slip out, stick close to the building, and escape unseen and unscathed. The issue is, those are just the Cranks he can _see_. What about the ones further down the street? Thomas knows there are more. He is, after all, in Auburn, which is a city. Even though it’s a rather small city, and he’s as far on the outskirts as one can get, he’s still _in a city_. Of course, there’s going to be a lot of undead. Especially with the horde on its way. 

Thomas furrows his brow. Then there’s the emergency door, down the back hallway. The door is completely solid, with no windows. Meaning he can’t look to check for the amount of Cranks on the backside of the building. Not to mention, if he opens the door, there’s always the chance that the alarm will go off. And if it does, Thomas will be monumentally _screwed_.

So, despite the risk factors, Thomas settles on exiting through the front door. He has more information as to how many are in front of the building. He’d rather know the danger before throwing himself head-first into it.

Thomas scans behind the receptionist desk where he’s hiding, a quick check for supplies. A few blood-stained papers, a tipped over chair, and a tapeless tape dispenser. Nothing of use. With a deep, steadying breath, Thomas slips out from behind the desk and moves over to the door whilst ducking low to the ground. He crouches down, pressing his side against the wall beside the doors, and turns his head to peer through the broken glass in the left door’s bottom panel. The Cranks haven’t noticed him, still stumbling around and emitting the occasional shriek.

His heart is pounding in his chest, the exhilaration making him breathless. He’s nervous. He’s excited. He’s scared. He shifts his legs, tensing the muscles in his thighs. His right one throbs painfully from where Aris had kneed him.

“Okay, you got this, Thomas,” he mumbles under his breath. He grips the pistol tight in both hands, up against his chest. He knows it’s fully-loaded, and he knows he has extra ammunition in his bag and in his pocket. But he rechecks anyway, movements fluid and quick in practiced experience.

Once he’s done this, he turns to fully face the broken glass pane. The hole is just big enough for him to squeeze through, but he’ll certainly cut himself on the protruding shards of glass. Thomas tucks his gun into his waistband against his hip and pulls the sleeves of his jacket over his palms, curling his fingers to keep them in place. He kneels down in front of the pane, wedging himself into the opening. A piece of glass still attached to the top of the pane gets caught on his backpack, so he pulls forward, wincing at the quiet clinking noise as the glass dislodges itself and falls to the ground. He slides the rest of the way outside without a hitch, slipping behind a well-placed bench but remaining crouched as he scans what he couldn’t see before through the bars of the bench.

The metal exoskeleton of a van. A smashed up hunk of steel that must have, at one point, been a car. Countless other vehicles lining the street that he, Aris, and Teresa had passed coming into the hotel.

Buildings of all sorts stretch along the road, nature beginning to claim them with crawling ivy and vines and moss. Clumps of grass are growing through cracks in the worn pavement of the road. Cranks are roaming about. Most of them are on the other side of the street, seemingly interested in something Thomas can’t quite see. Probably a recently-killed body—either animal or human—they can devour.

Further up, going _into_ the city, what he thinks is fog he suddenly realizes to be dust. Dust kicked up from Cranks, so much so that he can’t really tell the dangers in that directions. Luckily for him, he’s trying to _leave_ town, and so he turns his head the other way, huffing a silent sigh of relief when he spots one Crank a few yards away, and another a bit further down, but no others besides those two. And, of course, the group wandering close by.

The group is right across from him. They haven't yet seen him through the bars of the bench, but Thomas knows he’s ticking on borrowed time. He has to move. Now.

Thomas, swallowing past the pain and sudden dryness of his throat, creeps forward, feels naked and vulnerable when he leaves his pathetic cover. He slinks along, knees bent to the point that he’s nearly in a crouch. He ducks behind an abandoned blue sedan with an Indiana license plate that’s half hanging off the back bumper. A Crank emits a growl nearby and Thomas’s body tenses, tugging out his pistol and gripping it tightly. But the sound isn’t directed at him.

He raises his head over the side of the car, peeking over the top in his curiosity. The Crank snarls once more and begins attacking…another Crank.  _They hurt each other?_

Thomas gapes in shock. Not once in the year since the apocalypse began has Thomas seen or heard of a Crank turning and bluntly try to harm another. But maybe spending the first eight months of the apocalypse in a safe zone kept Thomas from knowing of things like this.

But then the attacking Crank is grabbed by the other one and impaled on a piece of glass from the shattered side window of another car. The aggressive Crank stops moving. The other one whirls around, mouth curving into a snarl, and that’s when Thomas sees it. The eyes. Staring right at him.

Because of certain circumstances, some Cranks don’t have the ability to see and rely on hearing alone. But the ones that _can_ see, if they catch sight of a non-Infected, tend to go berserk and attack them, thus alerting other Cranks. But then why is this Crank staring straight at him, but making no move towards him?

Then its mouth starts to move. _A warning call_ , Thomas thinks. To alert to other Infected about him being there. Thomas’s body tenses further and he prepares himself to start running, but then the Crank's mouth is moving, but no sound comes out. Mouthing _words_.

While they may often make human-sounding noises, Cranks lack the intellectual capacity to speak. And this one is mouthing the word _run_  to him.

A jolt of realization slams into him like a bolt of lightning. He’s read about these things before. It isn’t a Crank at all. It’s a human, covered in the blood and muck of a Crank to pass as one. He even has flesh clumped onto his clothes.

“ _Why_ —” Thomas begins to silently mouth back, but a piercing gunshot cuts him off. He instinctively ducks down behind the car, but not before watching the fake Crank crumple to the ground. Thomas’s heart begins to pound rapidly in his chest, and more gunshots ring out, interrupting the raging shrieks and calls of the group of Infected. The two Cranks further down the street come running towards the scene, screeching. Four more gunshots. The sounds of the Infected go silent.

“…Damn, we’d better hurry up. Horde’s bound to ‘of heard that.” Thomas doesn’t recognize the voice. He ducks lower behind the car, forcing himself to listen over the rapid beating of his heart. Two sets of footsteps crunch on the gritty pavement. Someone grunts in disgust.

“Fuckin’ hate Cranks,” says a second voice that Thomas doesn’t recognize.

“Yeah, well, check their bodies. Gotta to have _somethin’_ we can use.”

Thomas’s heart sinks. Bandits. Thomas has yet to deal with them, but he’s heard plenty about them in his time with WICKED. They’re people who refused to join Quarantine Zones and instead opted to stay out in the damaged world. People who often kill other survivors to steal their supplies.

Thomas tamps down his fear and contemplates his next move. Across the road from the hotel is a gas station. And the gas station’s convenience store. If he can get there, he can hide out until the bandits leave the area. Mind made up, Thomas shifts his pistol from his left hand to his right and listens closely for the bandits.

“Oh, by the way, I saw you yesterday,” the first voice begins. One set of footsteps falters.

“Wha-what?” stammers the second bandit.

“Mm-hm, saw you take those food rations outta my bag.”

The footsteps, both sets, stop entirely.

“Bit hungry, were ya?” the first voice asks, a menacing lilt entering his voice.

“I-I, I don’t…”

“I don’t want your excuses. Know what I want? My supplies back,” the first voice demands.

No answer comes.

“Ate ‘em, didn’t you?”

Nothing.

“ _Didn’t you_?” the first voice thunders. Thomas winces and presses himself against the side of the car. He doesn’t bother listening for the second bandit’s excuse as he peeks out from the side of the sedan to see their position. They’re a few feet away, but neither are looking. Now is the best time to move.

And move he does. Thomas darts forward, a half-second of vulnerability between vehicles, and slides behind the second, wincing at the crunch of gravel underfoot and breathing shallowly. He slowly relaxes. With the other abandoned cars, disregarding this next gap, getting to the convenience store from here should be a piece of cake.

That’s when the sound of a gun firing cracks through the air. Thomas flinches so hard he falls back onto his rear, tensing in preparation for pain, but it doesn’t come. The sound of something hits the pavement with a muffled thump. He opens his eyes—which he didn’t realize he’d closed—and slowly sits back up to look out from behind the car. He watches, wide-eyed, as the first man pockets his gun, lowers himself beside the body, and begins to tug off the corpse’s backpack. Then pats him down for other supplies.

Thomas gapes at the body, a sick feeling churning his stomach. Blood is beginning to pool around the corpse’s head, though Thomas can’t see the gunshot wound. He ducks back behind the car. That man just _murdered_ his comrade. Why? Because he stole a few supplies from him?

 _He's insane_ , Thomas thinks. _Insane, but distracted_.

Hands beginning to tremble, Thomas takes the opening provided to him and hauls ass towards the gas station. The gap between cars is much bigger this time, but the other bandit is far too distracted with his looting to notice Thomas slip behind the safety of another vehicle. From here, the cars are jam-packed together, and Thomas moves easily from one car to the next before, finally, the front doors are right there in front of him.

Crouching down, Thomas inspects the doors. Well, door. While the first one is intact, but with broken windows, the second has been kicked inward, lying on the tile of the store like a welcome mat. Tiny shards of glass are strewn all around it.

Thomas takes one more quick peek over the hood of the car to see if the bandit is still distracted. His heart sinks when he sees no one except for the body of the second man. Thomas drops back down behind his cover, trying to calm his shallow, panicking breaths by taking deeper ones.

 _Where did he go? Where did he go?_ Thomas repeats the fearful mantra in his head subconsciously, moving his pistol to his left hand for a moment to wipe his sweaty right palm on his jean-clad thigh. He shifts the gun back. He has to just risk it.

Heart pounding, he grits his teeth and bolts forward, a desperate scream bubbling up in his throat like bile. He suppresses it and steps over the caved-in door, stepping into the squares where the windows had once been. Bits of glass crackle underfoot and Thomas winces at the sound.

 _Almost there; so close…_ There’s a shift, and the room darkens.

“Stop _right_ there.”

Thomas freezes. Slowly, he turns around. The bandit is standing in the doorway, blocking out most of the sunlight with his bulky frame. His gun is pointed evenly between Thomas’s eyes. The bandit walks in a wide circle around him, allowing light to flood back into the room. His eyes are narrowed, and he finally stops at the register counter. He jerks his revolver.

“Drop the gun,” the bandit demands. Cursing himself internally, Thomas does so. His Glock clatters against the tile. “Kick it over.”

Thomas does, and the pistol skids towards the bandit’s feet. Eyes not leaving Thomas, the bandit leans down and picks up the second firearm, reaching behind him to place it on the countertop.

“Good.” The bandit grins. “Now gimme your supplies,” he says, gesturing with the revolver to Thomas’s backpack. Gritting his teeth in reluctance, Thomas slowly slides the bag’s straps off his shoulders, one at a time, before holding it out at arm’s length. The bandit takes a step forward, snatches it from him, and steps back. The bandit, mocking the fact that Thomas is now completely unarmed, sets his revolver on the counter next to the other one and makes a show of opening Thomas’s bag.

Thomas doesn’t miss the quiet chuckle. Nor does he miss the way the bandit becomes momentarily preoccupied with sifting through the bag.

“Damn, gorgeous, you sure have quite the—” Thomas lunges at him and shoves the surprised man back into the countertop. The backpack drops to the ground. Thomas springs forward to grab it. But the bandit recovers quicker than Thomas expected, pushing off the countertop and into Thomas. They crash to the ground in a flail of limbs, wrestling to the advantage. The advantage that Thomas is quickly losing, no matter how hard he struggles.

The bandit sits up from where he straddles Thomas’s hips, the same position Thomas had been in with Aris, back in the hotel. If Thomas thinks the position itself is uncomfortable, it’s nothing compared to when the bandit grinds down. A shocked gasp escapes Thomas’s throat and he pales at the implications of the motion. Grinning, the man repeats the action.

Thomas moves his arms to shove at the bandit’s chest. The more muscular man simply grabs Thomas’s smaller wrists with both hands and pins them to the filthy floor above his head with such ease it made Thomas want to cry.

“Get _off_!” Thomas cries, fear constricting his words. He tries kicking out, but the stranger remains firmly seated. In fact, he leans forward, pressing against Thomas from chest to groin and caging him in. He shifts so that he can press his left forearm across Thomas’s wrists to hold them in place, practically crushing them with the amount of weight he applies. Thomas watches, chest heaving with panicked breaths, as the bandit’s free hand snakes down to Thomas’s jeans, fingers grasping for the zipper. The man’s face hovers over Thomas’s, eyes blazing and stained teeth revealed in a disgusting grin.

“You’re a fighter. I like that,” the bandit praises. Thomas gags at the smell of his breath. He strains his arms against the man’s hold, but to no avail.

So, Thomas does what could possibly be the worst idea he’s ever had, but is his only option. He screams. There are likely other Cranks in the area, that would be attracted by the sound. Thomas knows this, but it doesn’t stop him from shouting.

“ _Help_ … _me_!” The words scratch his sore throat, stabbing pain like he’s swallowed hundreds of little shards of glass. Despite this, Thomas takes a deep breath to yell again. Before he starts to shout, however, he notices a sudden change in lighting in the room. Someone in the doorway.

Thomas watches as the bandit looks up. His eyes widen in shock. There are a few thumping footsteps and a flash of metal as the butt of the gun smacks into the bandit’s head. His body collapses on Thomas, and Thomas’s quick reaction to shove the dead weight off of him is the only thing that keeps him from being pinned beneath the body.

Thomas surges to his feet, stumbling back into the counter as he moves away from the new person at the door. The stranger looks up from the bandit to Thomas. He only looks a year or so older than Thomas, if that.

“Did…did you kill him?” Thomas chokes out.

“No. But he’ll have one hell of a bruise.” The boy lowers his gun to his side and gestures towards the street. “Pull your pants up and grab your stuff, shank. We gotta go.”


	3. Chapter 3

They walk in relative silence. Thomas sweeps his gaze over the other boy’s body for the fourth time. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from asking the questions swirling in his mind.

_Why are you out here instead of in a Quarantine Zone? Who are you? Are you alone or are there others? Why’d you save me?_

A small sigh pulls Thomas from his thoughts. The boy huffs a small chuckle. “Think much harder, you’re gonna hurt yourself, shank.”

“…Why do you keep calling me that?” The sound is hoarse, and Thomas clears his throat, grimacing slightly.

The other kid shrugs. “I don’t know. Just something we do.”

“‘We’?” Thomas echoes, his voice stronger than before, but still scratchy. The boy stops and sighs. Thomas watches as he scrubs his hand down his face.

“Look, man, I’d love to explain everything to you right now, but unfortunately enough, there’s a mass of Infected traveling this direction. They’re moving fast. And you and I,” the boy motions between themselves, “aren’t safe out here in the middle of the street. It’s open road for the next few miles. We get somewhere safe, then I’ll tell you whatever it is you want to know.”

Somehow, Thomas doesn’t exactly believe that. But he keeps his mouth shut, nodding, and decidedly tucks his Glock into the waistband of his jeans. He’d stuffed the bandit’s revolver into his bag, back at the gas station.

Thomas shifts his pack on his shoulders, gripping the straps. “Can you at least tell me your name?”

“I’m Minho, you’re Thomas, and I hope you’re in shape. Let’s go.”

Minho pivots and jogs away from where Thomas is standing, struck dumb by surprise. _How the_ hell _does he know my name?_

“Come on, shuck-face, I’ll explain it to you once we’re out of the open!” Minho throws the words over his shoulder without looking back, as though reading Thomas’s mind. An unbidden smile forms on Thomas’s lips, and despite his suspicion, he can’t help but like this guy.

Thomas tightens his grip on his backpack once more and begins to run to catch up with the other teen. Minho grins when Thomas reaches him, winks, and dashes off in a sprit. Thomas stifles a laugh and bolts after him.

For the first time since escaping WICKED, Thomas’s worries melt; melt into the rhythm of his feet slapping the pavement and the air whistling in and out of his lungs.

 

It doesn’t last long. After barely five minutes of running, Thomas’s breath catches in his throat on an inhale, and he breaks out into a heavy coughing fit. Thomas’s feet plod against the asphalt as he slows to stop. He buries his mouth in the crook of his elbow and coughs, his eyes watering as each one burns his throat more than the last. Ahead of him, Minho slows to a halt and turns around.

“You good, Tomboy?”

Thomas nods, the coughs dissipating. “Y-yeah, I’m fine,” he answers, his voice raspier than before. A small clear of his throat helps, but not by much.

“Don’t sound like it. Never did ask why you got those bruises on your neck, but it seems pretty self-explanatory, in my opinion. All those bruises on your face, too. That bandit get a few hits in before…?”

“No,” Thomas says hastily. “These are from someone else.”

Minho scoffs. “Gee, shank, guess people really don't like you.”

“Guess so,” Thomas agrees.

Silence falls between them for a few moments. A breeze floats through the air, and Thomas relishes the feeling against his sweaty skin. Minho sighs through his nose and readjusts the pack on his shoulders. Thomas notices that it isn’t as full as his own is.

“We’re not too far now. My group’s about another two miles that way,” Minho says, gesturing further down the strangely empty highway. “This highway leads to a small town called Garrett. There’s this housing addition we’ve been camped for the past few weeks. But, we’ll be leaving in a few days, hopefully with you in tow.”

Thomas’s questions come flowing. “How many people are in your group? Do you think they’ll let me in? Where are you guys headed? What-”

Minho holds up a hand, successfully silencing Thomas’s onslaught of words.

“Slim yourself. Are you good to keep going, or do we need to find somewhere to rest for a few minutes?”

Thomas shakes his head. “I’m good, just as long as we aren’t running.”

Minho nods. “All right. We’ll walk and talk, then.” At Thomas’s hum of an agreement, the pair continues down the street at a leisurely pace. The only sounds breaking through the quiet are the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the distant, not-yet-threatening screeches of Infected.

“…Okay, now to answer your questions. Including myself, there are thirteen of us. As far as letting you in, I’m not sure. I’ll put in a good word for you with Alby, our leader, but he can be a bit…harsh, at times. Our old leader, Nick, got killed a few weeks ago, so Alby’s pretty new to the whole “leader” thing. And you’d be the first Greenie since Nick’s death, so I can’t say.”

“‘Greenie’?” Thomas echoes, kicking a small pebble out of his path. It rolls and curves towards the side of the road before disappearing into the long, uncut grass.

“That’s what we call our newbies to the group.” Minho shrugs, then continues. “We’re headed away from the city, like you. There’s talk about this resistance group that took over a Quarantine Zone in Indianapolis. Call themselves the Right Arm. Some of our group are insistent that we go find them. But others, myself included, think it’s smarter to find someplace quiet and carve out our own little area to survive, while it’s still warm enough to do so. I was thinking somewhere up in Michigan. I know it’s summer, but time goes by faster than you’d think, and once it hits winter, we’ll be in trouble. It snows up there, and I've heard it makes the Cranks less aggressive.”

Thomas mulls this over in his head. “Why don’t you want to find this ‘Right Arm’ group? And what is it that they’re resisting? Quarantine Zones?”

Minho shakes his head. “No.” He pauses. “Well, sort of. Not just any Quarantine Zone, but this big one in Chicago, not too far from here. I’m sure you know which one I’m talking about.”

And Thomas, with a sinking feeling of dread, knows _exactly_ which one Minho is talking about. “WICKED,” he says.

Minho nods. “One rumor’s that the Right Arm thinks that, by taking out the WICKED facility in Chicago, all of the military Zones will collapse into anarchy. Apparently, the Right Arm sees WICKED as the sort of military ‘base camp’. Y’know, their headquarters.”

“Wh… But why would they _want_ that?” Thomas asks, bewildered. Minho shrugs.

“Don’t know. To give the rest of the survivors ‘freedom’? To become the new leading organization? Honestly, I’m betting on the latter. You can’t trust anyone anymore.”

“I didn’t realize WICKED was that well-known,” Thomas admits.

“ _Oh_ yeah, shank,” Minho nods. “Biggest Zone standing. At this point, a lot of people are sneaking out of their own Quarantine Zones to go find one of them. People are choosing sides. WICKED, or the Right Arm. Military, or the resistance.”

“And you’re saying you’re not picking either one?” Thomas confirms.

“Yup. I don’t want involved in this. If the Right Arm attacks WICKED, there’ll be huge fallout. It won’t be good. Most people still alive will probably die. I know a lot of people who agree with me, too. But, if I _had_ to pick, it sure as hell wouldn’t be WICKED.”

Thomas jerks his head over to Minho at that, curious. “Why not?”

Minho shifts his pack on his shoulders, stalling for time. He does it again. Then he sighs. “You were confused how I knew your name earlier. Well, here’s the gist of it: about three months ago, WICKED caught me on a supply run and I was stuck there for about a month before I finally got out. Heard all about their idea for a cure. The Chancellor kept going on about how you and these three others were ‘ _the key to everything_ ’. Immunes. The Elites. The Final Candidates.”

Minho pauses. “How long have you been with them? Just outta curiosity.”

Thomas is caught off-guard, not expecting the question, but quickly recovers. “Since the first few months of the Outbreak. My dad got infected, and my mom dropped me at WICKED. Since the beginning of all this, WICKED was all I’d known, and I even worked with them until I finally realized how bad what they’re doing is. Me and my friends got out a few months ago. Speaking of, how’d _you_ get out?” Thomas wonders aloud, frowning at Minho. It isn’t easy to escape WICKED. Thomas, Teresa, Aris, and Rachel only had because of a security slip-up. Complete luck. Which isn’t a common occurrence.

Minho’s lips quirk into a smile. “Well, I had a bit of help. One of the security guards and I became pretty close friends. After a bit of convincing, I got her and one of the other guards to let in a small group of Infected. The chaos was enough for the three of us to get out undetected.”

Thomas stops in his tracks, now openly staring at the other teen. Minho turns around, confused.

“What?”

“You…the Cranks that got in…. That was _intentional_?”

Minho nods slowly, looking more and more puzzled by the second. “Thomas?”

“That’s how we got out!” Thomas says, gesticulating wildly. “Me, Teresa, Aris, and Rachel. We…we thought it was a security slip. We thought it was just _luck_.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and his expression falls into one of pure shock. After a moment, the look completely morphs into a large grin. “Well, well, well, talk about coincidences.”

Thomas exhales silently, shaking his head. “Yeah, no shit,” he says, an awed lilt entering his tone. A small laugh escapes Minho’s mouth.

“C’mon, shuck-face. We’d better get goin’.”

“Yeah… yeah, you’re right.”

 

The next time they stop, it’s Minho who stops walking first, but Thomas quickly follows suit. His feet and bruises are aching, his throat is dry as could be, and the sun is beginning its slow dip into sunset. Thomas sighs, loudly. Minho gives him a small glance, then turns his attention to the watch on his wrist. Thomas has seen the other boy look at it a few times, and wonders if it actually works.

“There a reason we stopped?” Thomas asks, swinging his pack off of his shoulders and crouching down to pull out his canteen, taking a few sips of water. He contemplates offering the bottle to his new companion, but decides against it, tucking it back into his bag and zipping it shut.

“Cuz we’re here, shuck-face,” Minho states, nodding to an illegible sign on the ground. Minho steps over the sign and enters the housing addition. Thomas hastily shoves his arms back into the straps of his bag and follows him.

They walk past the first four houses in silence. Thomas finds himself pleasantly surprised by the lack of Infected they’ve seen on the way out of Auburn. Even in town, passing gas stations and homes, Thomas and Minho had only three or four encounters with Cranks.

Thomas opens his mouth to bring this up to Minho, but the other teen turns to walk up a short driveway, leading to a rather large, nicely intact, house.

A sudden nervousness jolts through him. What if these people decide they don’t like him? What if they order him to leave? Despite meaning to upon leaving the hotel, Thomas loathes the thought of traveling alone. He’s always had Teresa—or _someone_ —by his side; the thought of being alone is chilling.

“Slim yourself, Thomas,” Minho says. “Just don’t say anything offensive or stupid and you’ll be fine. And try not to be hostile.”

Before Thomas can ask for the specifications to offensive and/or stupid things to say, Minho knocks on the door. The knocking is clearly in rhythm, probably a form of password or code. This is confirmed for Thomas when, after a few moments of nothing, there comes a quiet, nearly inaudible _click_ as someone unlocks the door, and it swings inwards. From inside the building, Thomas hears the muffled shout of “ _Minho’s back_ ” and retreating footsteps. Minho gestures for Thomas to follow him, and steps inside.

With a small shake of his head, Thomas enters the house after Minho. He watches, baffled, as Minho toes off his shoes by the front door. Minho looks up, grinning at Thomas’s surprise.

“You can keep your shoes on if you want, but with thirteen of us, the house is safe from Infected, and it’s a lot more comfortable to take ‘em off.”

A faint voice from further in the house answers him. “Yeah, but your feet _stink_ , Min-” The person stops abruptly, and Thomas looks up to see an unfamiliar boy staring at him from the living room. He’s younger than Thomas, that much is clear. In fact, the boy can’t be much older than twelve.

“Who’re you?” he asks, crinkling up his nose. The boy has an odd amount of chubbiness to him, something Thomas wouldn’t have expected to see, what with how small rations were with WICKED. But who knows?

_Maybe these guys are really good at finding food. Or it could be a genetic thing._

“Chuck, this is Thomas. Thomas, this is Chuck. He’s the youngest in our group. Let me warn you, though, he gets annoying _real_ fast.”

Chuck frowns and ignores Minho’s jibe. “Does Alby know you’re bringin’ in Greenies?”

“Green- _ie_ , Chuck. Just the one,” Minho responds easily. “And no, but if you’d like to go get him, I’d appreciate it.”

The boy’s mouth opens as if to argue, but a look from Minho has the boy grumbling and walking out of sight. Minho hums and turns to Thomas.

“On second thought, keep your shoes on. If Alby sees you with ‘em off, he’ll immediately take it as you making yourself a home, and he’ll get offended by it, no doubt.” Minho sighs. “Come with me. Oh, and if I were you, I’d put the gun in your bag or something, dude. Alby won’t like seeing you with a gun if he thinks you might be dangerous.”

Thomas suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at Minho’s last comment, opting rather to just follow him into the living room. Two sofas (one navy blue and one grey), two armchairs (both brown leather), and a beige love seat are strategically situated to all be facing inward. Minho flops down on the blue sofa, groaning.

“God, I hate supply runs. They’re so strenuous.” Thomas doesn’t reply to that, choosing instead to seat himself in one of the two armchairs, perching on the edge of the seat. Minho peeks open an eye and huffs at him.

“Dude, relax. We’re not about to kill ya. And take your bag off. I haven't been carrying it, but even I can tell it must be heavy,” he says, sitting up and propping his back against the armrest of the sofa, legs stretched out on the cushions. He wiggles his sock-covered toes.

“Does that watch work?” Thomas inquires, gesturing to the item buckled on Minho’s wrist. The teen looks over at Thomas, down at his wrist, then back to Thomas.

“No. Why?”

“Just…wondering what time it is.”

Minho snorts a laugh. “Greenie, this watch hasn’t worked in five years, not even before the Outbreak. I don’t know why I keep it. Sentimental value, I guess.”

Thomas nods, looking out the window towards the setting sun. “Where is everyone?” he asks, shrugging his backpack off of his shoulders and setting it beside the armchair. After a moment of hesitation, he also pulls his Glock from his waistband and zips it into the largest pocket of his bag, then removes his jacket and places it atop his pack. “I thought there were thirteen of you.”

“There are.” Thomas whips his head towards the staircase. Walking into the living room is another unfamiliar boy, dark in every way Thomas can think; from his skin, to the expression on his face. He turns the angry look towards Minho as he steps into the living room.

“What did I say about bringing in Newbies?” he asks, lips pressed into a thin line. He glances at Thomas, his distaste evident. Thomas doesn’t know that he likes this guy.

“Oh, come on, Alby,” Minho says in exasperation. “The kid’s nice, and it’s not like we can’t use the extra help around here.”

“And it’s not like we have a whole army’s worth of food, either!” the dark boy snaps. _Genetic, then_ , Thomas surmises about Chuck’s weight.

Minho simply waves his hand, as though dismissing the words. “He’s got his own supplies, probably stuff we could use here. If it really bothers you, I’ll go on a few extra supply runs, but either way, he stays.” Minho says the words with firm resolve, as though the decision has already been made and it isn’t open to discussion.

Alby’s expression hardens. Minho holds the look unflinchingly. A small growl of frustration comes from Alby, and he jerks his head back towards the staircase. “You and I need to talk. You, Greenie.”

Thomas jumps when he realizes Alby is now talking to him. “Yes?”

“Minho’s the only shank who can talk to me like that without getting his butt kicked out of the group. Stay out of trouble. I’m sending Newt down to watch you, and if he has one negative thing to say…” Alby trails off, his intentions clear.

“I get it,” Thomas says. Alby blinks, then pivots on his foot to stalk back towards the stairs, silent the entire way up. Thomas shifts his eyes to Minho. The other teen returns the looks and shrugs.

“He won’t kick me out or anything. He’s probably just mad that I stood up to him in front of you. He doesn’t like when his ‘authority’ gets questioned.” Minho snorts and shakes his head. “I’ll be talking to you later, Greenie. Have fun with Newt; I’m sure you two will get along _swimmingly_.”

Thomas furrows his eyebrows, unsure if Minho’s words are sarcastic or not. The teen disappears up the stairs before he can actually ask. With a weary sigh, Thomas sinks back into the comfortable armchair, closing his eyes and savoring the relative silence. The only sounds aside from his own breathing are the indistinct voices from upstairs and muffled footsteps, also coming from the upper floor. The house is pleasantly cool, too. There's obviously no air-conditioning, but it's still not as hot as it is outside.

Thomas fights the urge to fall asleep, knows he should be on his guard, jerking his head up every time it lolls onto his shoulder. He doesn’t know how many times he repeats this until he becomes annoyed enough at himself that he finally opens his tired eyes, raising his hands to rub them. He winces when the action makes the area around his left eye throb painfully, dutifully reminding him of Aris’s punch from earlier. _Was that really just yesterday? Feels like forever ago._

Thomas drops his hands back into his lap and blinks open his eyes, jolting when he notices someone seated on the same couch Minho had been lying on only a few moments before. Or, at least, Thomas _thinks_ it was a few moments before…. _How long was I dozing?_

He stares at the boy on the sofa. The boy continues to look Thomas over, his gaze scrutinizing. There’s a tiny frown creasing his brow as he takes all of Thomas in. Slowly, the boy’s eyes move up from Thomas’s neck to his face, their eyes meeting.

Which is how Thomas unintentionally finds himself locked in a staring contest with this absolute stranger. The other boy’s eyes are dark brown, his gaze headstrong. Thomas would have been rather intimidated, if not for the smile slowly curling the boy’s lips, the crinkling at the corners of his eyes that prove the smile to be genuine.

“Give it up, Greenie,” the boy says after a solid ten seconds of silence. “Ain’t gonna win.”

“We’ll see about that,” Thomas answers, gaze unfaltering. The other boy chuckles quietly, but he doesn’t blink.

“Yeah, s’pose we will,” he agrees. There’s a beat of silence, and the light mood plunges into something much tenser. The smile drops from the other boy’s lips, and, somehow, his gaze seems to intensify. Thomas’s eyes begin to burn, but he stubbornly keeps them open. His breaths come so shallowly he’s hardly breathing at all, tensed and still. The other boy appears to be in a similar state. Thomas’s heart begins to pound.

Eyes watering, Thomas finally blinks, and the intensity breaks. The boy hollers in victory, leaping from his seat and grinning widely. He points at Thomas. “Told you I’d buggin’ win!” he crows.

“Yeah, yeah,” Thomas grumbles, slouching back into the armchair and blinking the dryness out of his eyes as heart rate returns to normal.

“But bloody hell, you sure put up a fight. Another few seconds and I would’ve blinked too,” the boy says. Thomas ponders the accent for a moment, unable to place it.

“British,” the boy says, and Thomas gives a small ‘ah’ of realization.

“Thought so,” he lies. “I’m Thomas.”

“I know. Alby told me Minho brought you in without permission.”

Thomas smiles sheepishly, shrugging. This earns a laugh from the boy, and Thomas feels an odd sense of pride at that.

“I like you, Greenie. Name’s Newt,” he says.

“He said he was sending you down here to watch me,” Thomas nods. “Didn’t realize you’d take it so literally.”

Newt snorts and looks as if he wants to roll his eyes, but smiles anyway. “Can’t exactly blame me.”

Thomas quirks an eyebrow in question. Newt either doesn’t see this or chooses to ignore it as he asks, “What happened to your face? Ya look like you took a right beating.”

“Something like that,” Thomas sighs, his mood dropping. “Someone from my last group got a bit angry at something I said to him, and he went off.”

Newt nods slowly. “And did he do that to your throat, too? That why your voice is a bit gravelly like that?” he questions, gesturing to the bruises around Thomas’s neck.

“Yeah. Like I said, he went off. I shouldn’t have said what I said, though, and there were…events leading up to it. We’d just lost someone to the Infected, which was my fault, and there was just a lot of tension building up.”

“Doesn’t mean he had the right to bloody strangle you, Thomas,” Newt says, lips pressed together and eyebrows pulling down into a look of clear disapproval.

Thomas waves him off. “It’s fine, really. Honestly, after what happened, I des—”

A heavy pounding on the back door, in the same rhythm Minho had done earlier, captures Thomas’s attention—only now realizing there _is_ a back door—and he watches as Newt hurries over, checks through the blinds, and twists the handle. An unfamiliar boy steps inside, lugging two large buckets of water in either hand. His face is bright from exertion.

“Thanks, Newt,” he grunts. He carries the buckets out of sight, and Newt shuts the door. A few seconds later, the boy reappears, now bucket-less, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

“Who’s the Greenie and why’s he here?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at Thomas. His eyes are dark, and his mouth twists into a scowl when he looks at Thomas.

“This is Thomas,” Newt states, ignoring the latter part of the boy’s question. “Thomas, this is Gally.”

“Hey,” Thomas says, nodding to the new boy.

“We’re keeping him?” Gally asks, crinkling his nose in apparent distaste. At Newt’s nod of affirmation, Gally frowns.

“Why do you look like you got hit by a shucking truck, Greenie?” Gally asks. Thomas fidgets with his fingers, fighting off the urge to snap at the other boy.

“Long story,” he finally says. Gally’s eyes narrow, mouth opening as if to say something, but Newt jumps in before he can.

“I’ll explain later, Gally.” Newt turns to Thomas. “If that’s okay?”

Thomas nods in assent. Out of nowhere, he realizes that his earlier question to Minho hadn’t properly been answered.

“Where is everyone?” he asks, turning to Newt.

“Minho and Alby went upstairs to talk. Chuck’s in his room. Frypan’s probably in the kitchen, and Zart might be as well…”

“No, Zart’s outside, putting out the fire. We just got that water boiled and once it cools, it’s safe to drink,” Gally says.

Newt nods and continues his train of thought. “Let’s see… Clint and Jeff are probably upstairs, too. Winston, I’m not sure about, Ben’s out on a supply run, and Brenda and Jorge are probably trying to get that bloody car working.”

“Car?” Thomas questions.

“Yeah,” Newt says, moving to sit on one of the sofas. “When we got here, we found a truck _and_ a van that run and even have fuel, but we can’t bloody well fit thirteen people—well, fourteen now—into a tiny pickup and a minivan, now can we?” He shakes his head, as though to answer himself. “Last week, Minho and Alby found a car a few houses down that _would_ work, ‘cept the battery’s dead. Jorge says what we really need to find are a set of jumper cables. Then we can use the pickup or the van to jumpstart the car. We already replaced two of the tires and even filled the tank, so otherwise, it’s ready to go.”

Thomas hums quietly in thought, and the three of them fall silent. After five minutes of awkward silence pass, a loud thump from upstairs gains their attention. Thomas jumps up from his seat, tensed. Newt spares him a glance, but says nothing about his uneasy behavior, instead opting to walk towards the bottom of the staircase and shout, “Alby, you’d better not be killin’ Minho up there!”

There’s a drawn-out creaking sound, and moments later, Minho and Alby appear at the top of the stairs, Alby plodding down them with an unamused expression and Minho smiling. Behind them is Chuck and two unfamiliar faces. They also appear to be teens, and Thomas wonders briefly how all of these boys of the same general age grouped together.

Minho’s eyes meet Thomas’s, and the other boy winks, followed by a waggle of his eyebrows. Thomas feels some of the stress in his muscles loosen, and he smiles.

“Gally, get Fry and Zart in here,” Alby says once they reach the bottom of the stairs, moving to seat himself in the armchair closest to him. He looks at Thomas, expression thinning in clear distaste as he takes him in. He shakes his head and leans back into the chair. Alby waves his hand.

“Sit down. This Gathering’s gonna be quick, but I want everyone payin’ attention,” he states. Thomas lowers himself back into his own armchair, clasping his hands in his lap and watching as the two new boys from upstairs—Thomas thinks their names might be Clint and…what was it? John? Jeff?—take up the love seat, and Newt and Minho take up two cushions on one the blue sofa.

Gally returns to the living room and sits on the empty couch, followed by two more boys Thomas doesn’t recognize.

“Is Winston here?” Newt asks, turning to Alby.

“In the basement, gathering anything he might find useful,” the dark-skinned boy answers. “Go get him, would ya?”

Newt mumbles an agreement and rises from the sofa, walking around the staircase and to what must be a door on the other side, disappearing from sight. The dull thuds of footsteps descending down another set of stairs fill the silence, and Thomas finds himself listening to them closely. Every other step falls just slightly heavier, as though Newt is walking with a limp. 

Thomas is given little time to think about it, pulled from his thoughts when one of the boys he doesn’t recognize, with dark skin and a short crop of black hair, starts talking.

“So I know we got a Newbie and that’s great an’ all,” he begins, glancing at Thomas, “but we gotta talk about the food situation, Alby. Zart and I went through everything we have and we looked through the pantries in case we missed something, but what we got isn’t enough to keep us goin’ for very long. A week at most, and that’s with strict rationing.”

“We’ll make it work,” Minho says with a small nod. He gestures to Thomas. “The Greenie ain’t as useless as he looks. I’m sure he’s got food with him, and if he wants to be a part of this group, I’m sure he won’t mind a few supply runs.”

The look Minho shoots Thomas is an expectant one, and it takes the boy a moment to realize everyone’s staring at him. He straightens up in his chair, sputtering. “Yeah! Yeah, of course, I mean…yeah.”

Minho snorts.

Thomas opens his mouth, to say what, he doesn’t know, but is saved from making a complete fool of himself when Newt reappears with another kid—face covered in acne—in tow. Newt returns to his space on the sofa, and the acne-faced kid drops down next to him.

“Who’s he?” the new kid asks, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees, staring at Thomas.

“I’m Thomas,” he answers.

“Our newest Newbie,” Chuck says with a small, self-important nod.

“He was from WICKED, but the shuck-face has been on his own for a while. Everyone wanna introduce themselves?” Minho asks. He leans forward slightly, grinning. “I’ll go first; Thomas, I’m Minho. Good to meet ya, shank.”

Scattered chuckles come from around the group, and Thomas smiles. Newt introduces himself next, somewhat sarcastically, and after him, the acne-faced boy next to Minho speaks.

“I'm Winston,” he says. They go around the circle like this, and Thomas quickly learns the names to associate with the faces of Winston, Frypan, Zart, Clint, and Jeff. According to Alby, the other three—Jorge, Brenda, and Ben—are out at the moment.

“Anyone got anything to say about the Greenie, say it now, before we get stuck with him,” Alby says.

“So, let me get this straight; you’re just _letting_ him stay? Why?” Gally asks, turning his attention to Alby. “You’re the one who said no Greenies. We don’t have enough supplies for that. Plus, I mean, _look_ at him. He’s covered in bruises. It’s pretty obvious that whoever he was with last, he got into a fight with, and from the looks of it, the damned Newbie lost. So, he’s got a temper, but he can’t even fight. And who _knows_ how bad the shank is with a gun!”

Gally rubs his eyes. “We don’t know if we can trust him. You heard Minho, he’s from WICKED! What if he turns on us in the middle of the night and tries killin’ us?”

Thomas suppresses the anger boiling inside of him. He knows not to take the bait. Because that’s clearly what it is; bait. Gally’s trying to get a rise out of him, and Thomas _knows_ not to acknowledge it.

So, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t, but as he looks around the group, he can tell that Gally’s words seem, at least somewhat, to have their intended effect. Winston’s expression has turned doubtful, and Jeff, too, is starting to look conflicted. Everyone else either looks uneasy or, in Minho’s and Newt’s cases, angry.

“You’re not _serious_ , are you?” Minho asks rhetorically, huffing out a bland laugh. He gestures to Thomas aggressively. “You just said yourself, the dude’s harmless! I don’t think he’s going to be _killing_ us in our sleep, Gally. I mean, _really_.”

“I—”

Surprisingly enough, it’s Alby that cuts Gally off, a no-nonsense expression on his face. “I know you've got beef with all things WICKED, but if I thought the shank was a threat, Gally, I wouldn’t have let Minho keep him.”

 _I’m not a pet!_ Thomas thinks indignantly, pressing his lips together to keep from saying the words aloud.

“Okay, sure, but what if…what- what if he’s bitten? Minho, did you even check to see if he was bitten?” Gally asks, eyebrows creeping up his forehead as he turns to the teen in question. Thomas himself turns to look at Minho, as does everyone else.

Minho visibly hesitates, licking his lips then raising a hand to rub over the back of his head. He opens his mouth to speak, but Alby, expression now an interesting mix of fury and dread, gets there first.

“You didn’t check him,” Alby says, the words coming out as more of a statement than a question, the sentence lacking the lilt at the end that would have made it so. Thomas watches, transfixed, as Alby appears to swell up with anger, a vein popping out on his forehead as he rises to his feet.

“You didn’t _check_ him?” Alby roars, becoming louder with each word until he’s almost screaming. His anger is so intense, Thomas physically presses himself back into the armchair. Alby’s attention turns to Thomas, apparently noticing the slight movement, and he strides towards him.

“Up, Greenie, get up!” he barks, grabbing Thomas by the lapels of his jacket and yanking him to his feet. Thomas’s eyes widen at the harsh manhandling and he yelps in surprise as Alby shakes him roughly, using his taller stature to his advantage to appear intimidating as he glowers at Thomas.

“Are you bit?” he snaps, shaking Thomas once more for emphasis. “ _Are you bit_?”

“I’m not— no!” Thomas stammers, raising his hands to grab Alby by the biceps to keep him from shaking him again.

“You lyin’?” demands Alby, hands tightening in Thomas’s jacket.

“ _No_!” Thomas exclaims. “Let go of me!”

“Alby. Alby that’s enough!” A set of hands grab at Alby’s arm, wrenching him away from Thomas. Alby moves backward, and the small space between him and Thomas is quickly filled by someone else. Thomas takes a staggering step backward.

Though he can’t see his face, Thomas knows that Newt’s expression is either pleading or one of defiance. Judging by what little Thomas knows of the boy, he assumes it’s the former.

A tense silence follows the dispute, only broken by Minho’s weary, “Just drop it, man. If he was bit, the fever woulda set in by now.” Alby glances over at him, then back to Newt, eyes narrowing briefly before he finally relents.

“Don’t come bother me unless it’s actually important. Minho, you’re on first watch tonight; you’ll switch out with Zart once your three hours are up; Zart, you’ll switch with Gally. You guys know the drill. Newt, you’re in charge of the Greenie,” Alby says brusquely, whirling around leaving the living room, tromping up the steps. Thomas expects to hear a door slam shut, but doesn’t.

“ _Well_ then,” Minho mumbles under his breath.

“It’s getting dark out,” Chuck suddenly says. “Shouldn’t they be back by now?”

“Jorge and Brenda have stayed out late before and they’re only down the street,” Minho says, waving his hand dismissively. “They’ll be fine. And Ben has one of the other walkie-talkies, ‘member? If he was in trouble, he’d radio Alby; plus, he’s gone far enough for supplies before that he’s been gone a few days. They’ll be fine, Chuck.”

“Well yeah, but—”

“ _They’ll be fine_ , Chuck. End of story.” Minho sighs. “Look, it’s gettin’ dark. Head on up to bed. Zart, Gally, why don’t you go with him. Need to be rested for your watch tonight.”

“ _You_ don’t get to tell me what to do, Minho,” Gally snaps. Regardless, he follows Zart and Chuck upstairs, grumbling the whole way.

“You know, I think we’ll probably turn in, too. It’s getting too dark to actually do anything productive, anyway,” Clint says. “You guys comin’?” Frypan nods, Jeff and Winston shrug, and the four make for the stairs as well.

“Guess I’m sleeping on the couch?” Thomas asks, only half joking. Newt shakes his head, his bangs flopping against his forehead.

“No, you’ll be bunkin’ with me, Minho, and Chuck, I ‘spect,” he says. “Only four _actual_ beds in the house went to Alby, Brenda, Chuck, and me, so everyone else sleeps on the floor in different rooms. Much as I hate the special treatment, Alby practically forced me to take the bed. Grumpy as he is, he’s actually a nice guy.”

“Brenda…” Thomas pauses. “She’s the only girl, right? Don’t you guys worry about…y’know…”

Newt just laughs. “Oh, she can take care of herself, Greenie; it’s not an issue. But we’ve got Alby and Jorge roomin’ with her, just in case. Not that she’s very happy with it, of course, but she said Alby was better than Gally. Have to say, I agree with her.”

Thomas snorts. “Yeah, he’s kind of a dick.”

Newt nods, the motion slowing to a stop as he turned to look at Minho, whose face is pulled into a deep frown. Newt’s content expression morphs into one more serious, and he stares at his friend. “Minho? What’s the matter?”

The teen in question sighs but ends up shaking his head. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

Before Newt or even Thomas can reply, a familiar, rhythmic knock sounds from the front door. Thomas turns to Newt, raising an eyebrow in question as Minho moves to go open the door.

“It’s sort of like a password,” Newt explains. “It’s how we know it’s someone from our group and not someone else.”

Thomas gives a quiet “oh” of understanding and nods. Minho twists the handle and pulls the door open to reveal two dirty faces.

“Hey, Brenda, Jorge,” Minho says in greeting. “You two were out late.”

“Trying to find cables to jumpstart that car, _hermano_ ,” the older one—the male of the two—says. He steps inside and slings his backpack off of his shoulders with a heavy sigh, tossing it onto the couch. The girl, who must be a teenager herself, walks in after him.

“Any luck?” Newt asks. The girl—Brenda—shakes her head.

“Nope, not yet. We were hoping…” She trails off, her eyes flitting around the room and landing on Thomas. Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, then pull downwards into a frown.

“Thomas?” she says. “ _How_ …”

“It’s hard to explain,” Thomas answers. “Long story short, me, Aris, Rachel, and Teresa all got out around the same time you and Minho did.”

Brenda’s expression darkens. “Is that why there’s been so much WICKED activity lately?” she asks.

This piques Thomas’s interest. “What do you mean?”

She waves her hand. “When me, Jorge, and Minho got out, it almost felt like we were being followed, there were so many WICKED patrols. We thought they were after us, but…” she gives Jorge a glance, “apparently not.”

“Good thing you found me when you did, then, Minho,” Thomas says. 

“Well,” Newt suddenly cuts in, “it’s been a long day and I, for one, am ready to get some sleep.”

“Count me in,” Jorge nods.

“Hey,” Minho begins, “did you two see any sign of Ben out there? It’s just, he usually tells us he’s staying out all night before doing it, and we haven’t heard from him.”

Jorge and Brenda exchange somewhat uneasy looks.

“No, we didn’t,” Brenda answers. “I’m sorry, Minho.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” Minho replies firmly. “I’m sure he’s fine. Probably just lost track of time and decided it was safer to spend the night somewhere than travel. He’ll radio Alby in the morning to let him know he’s on his way back.”

Once again, Jorge and Brenda exchange looks, but they don’t comment this time.

“All right, I’m going to bed,” Brenda announces. She moves to plod up the stairs, her exhaustion obvious in the way she’s holding herself. Jorge follows after her.

It falls silent in the living room. Thomas shifts uncomfortably and gnaws on his bottom lip, mindful of the healing split. He’s just wondering if he should speak up when Newt beats him to it.

“You, um…you gonna be all right on watch, Min?” he asks, his concern for his friend plain as day. Fleeting jealousy burns through Thomas, but it dissipates as soon as it had come. His “friends” used to care about him that much, until he royally fucked up and, oh yeah, got Rachel freaking killed…

“I’m fine, Newt, why wouldn’t I be?” Minho says, a sharp bite to his words. Thomas isn’t sure whether he imagines Newt’s flinch or not. Thomas _is_ sure, however, that Newt shakes his head, expression pinched in sadness as he turns to Thomas.

“C’mon, Greenie. Time to turn in,” he says.


	4. Chapter 4

Thomas wakes up with a start, limbs thrashing. Eyes flying open, he pulls himself up and into a sitting position. His heart feels lodged somewhere in his throat, and his body is gross and sweaty. He shifts, sending pins and needles up his arm from where he’d been sleeping on it.

As the numbness in his arm dissipates, and his heart is returning to its proper position and no longer trying to pound its way out of his chest, Thomas looks around the room. His eyes are slowly adjusting to the dark gloom; he can make out the prone form of Minho ( _his watch shift must be over_ ) to his right, on the floor. Up higher, in one of the beds, is Chuck, still sound asleep.

When he turns his head, he nearly jumps out of his own skin when he sees the silhouette of Newt sitting upright on the second bed, feet hanging off the side and facing his direction. The shout of surprise gets caught in his throat somewhere on the way, and what comes out instead is strangled yelp.

“…Hoooooly crap,” Thomas breathes, drawing out the ‘o’ in “holy” in a long exhale.

“Did I wake you?” Thomas asks, keeping his voice low. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you all right?” Newt responds instead. “Must’ve been a pretty nasty dream.”

Thomas just nods and looks down to where his fingers are fidgeting in his lap, despite the fact that he can’t see them.

“…You plannin’ on going back to sleep?”

Thomas glances up. “I don’t know if I can,” he says. After a moment’s contemplation, he stands, his joints cracking as he straightens. “I think…I think I’m going downstairs.”

“All right,” Newt says. Thomas clears his throat and nods, turning and navigating his way towards the closed door, careful not to step on Minho.

He makes it down the short corridor and the stairs without tripping and settles into the leather armchair he’d sat in the evening before. Across from him, on the grey sofa, Gally scoffs at him but otherwise gives no indication that he even sees Thomas.

In the darkness, Thomas gets away with rolling his eyes. Ignoring Gally, he reaches down and his fingers brush against the fabric of his backpack, still sitting where he left it, with his jacket folded on top. Thomas sits back upright, hauling the pack into his lap. He sets his jacket on the armrest and unzips the largest pocket, reaching in to feel the cool metal of his pistol. Just knowing that the weapon is there, that he can defend himself if need be, has Thomas relaxing.

He doesn’t even remember the context of the dream. All he remembers is fear, so strong Thomas thinks he can still feel it settled in his bones like lead. Shaking off the feeling, Thomas reseals his bag and sets it back in its place, but pulls on the jacket over his tee shirt.

_If Gally’s on watch, that means it’s almost morning anyway._

 

It’s another hour before the sun rises, and Thomas watches as the house begins to brighten. He listens as the activity and morning bustle in the house gradually gets louder.

“Hey, Newbie. Surprised you’re up already. You a morning person?” Thomas turns his head from the rising sun towards Chuck.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” Thomas agrees. Chuck hums.

“Well, that’s more than Minho can say. He’d sleep ’til noon if we let him. I’m telling you, he’d be zombie chow without us,” Chuck says, childlike mirth in his eyes. Thomas hasn’t seen innocence like that for…well, he doesn’t know how long. 

“Fight me, Chuck,” grumbles Minho as he enters the room. Chuck grins and disappears into the kitchen. Thomas turns his attention towards the blue sofa, where Minho has flopped himself down.

“Tired?” Thomas says.

Minho groans. “You have no idea, man. I’m tellin' you, keeping watch for three hours? It friggin’ _sucks_.”

Thomas hums, eyes flicking towards a small movement from the bottom of the stairs that just turns out to be Alby. “I’ll bet.”

“Yeah,” Minho says, sitting up and stretching his arms over his head. He drops them into his lap with a long exhale and looks past Thomas towards the kitchen. “I wonder what Frypan’s servin’ us today. For once, canned peaches actually don’t sound too bad—”

“Minho, Ben radioed in this morning.” Alby, despite interrupting, immediately captures Minho’s attention.

“What?” Minho says, snapping his head around to face Alby, the rest of his body following suit. “What’d he say? He all right?”

Alby nods and walks around the sofa. “Said he’ll be back in about half an hour. That store you two have been getting our supplies from? Apparently, the Cranks have gotten over the barrier. He had to hide out for the night, but he said he’s fine.”

“Aw, shit,” Minho says, rubbing his eyes. “So now we’re cut off from supplies _entirely_. That, that is just fantastic.”

“Yeah, well, it means we’ve gotta get out of this town a lot sooner than we planned,” Alby says. “Once Ben gets back, I want every available person out looking for a set of damned jumper cables. I want that car working, or else we’re just gonna have to make do with the truck and van and cut our losses.” He glances at Thomas as he says this. Thomas wants to take offense but finds himself to shocked to do so. The fact that Alby blatantly just said they’d leave him—and maybe others—behind if they don’t get the car started is more than a little concerning. Thomas wonders how exactly Alby was elected to become the leader of this ragtag group of teenagers. 

Thomas wonders if he was elected at all.

“Okay,” Minho says. “We’ll get lookin’ for your jumper cables. Hey, just out of curiosity, Jorge _does_ know how to use those, right?”

Alby shrugs. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Yeah, okay,” Minho snorts under his breath, barely loud enough for Thomas to hear him. Alby, seemingly satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, walks into the kitchen.

Minho claps his hands together and stands up. “Well, you wanna get breakfast and then get out there looking with me?”

“Sure, why not?”

* * *

The shock at turning around and seeing a gun pointed at his face has Thomas tripping over his feet, his backpack almost slipping off his shoulders. He hisses out a curse and regains his balance, raising his hands up to show the stranger just how defenseless he is.

The boy’s clothes are stained in various spots with dried blood, his sandy blond hair a wild mess, and his face is covered in dirt. He looks rough.

“Woah, hey, let’s— let’s think about this,” Thomas says, maintaining eye contact with the boy instead of giving into the urge to look around for Minho, who seems to have completely disappeared. “How about you put the gun away, and—”

“ _Don’t shoot_!” The panicked shout is followed by rapid footsteps, and Thomas’s shoulders lose some of their tension when Minho comes into sight. “Don’t shoot, Ben! He’s with us.”

“Minho?” The boy— Ben, apparently—lowers the pistol to his side, his expression falling into something much less hostile. Minho jogs over to the boy, pulling him into a one-armed side hug.

“Glad you’re all right man, we were getting worried,” Minho says, taking a step back. Ben nods, and his eyes fall back to Thomas.

“You said he’s with us?”

“Yeah,” confirms Minho. “New Greenie. Greenie, this is Ben.”

“Hi,” Thomas says. “Thanks for not shooting me.”

Ben snorts. He holds his gun up and waves it around. “Get on my nerves, Greenie, and I still might.”

Minho laughs, so Thomas decides that Ben must be joking, despite the dead-seriousness of his expression and voice. Clearing his throat, Minho’s persona sobers.

“You didn’t happen to find any jumper cables, did you?” Minho asks, the only betrayal of his hopefulness in the way he quirks his eyebrow.

“Well,” Ben begins slowly, “I _did_ , but…”

“But what?” Thomas prompts after a few beats of silence.

“ _But_ , they’re in the store that the Cranks have overrun. I didn’t mention it over the radio because I knew Alby would get mad if he found out that I found them but didn’t get them, so I thought I’d let you know first, Minho. So us two could come back and try to get to them.”

Minho brightens. “Awesome! You’ve gotta be dead tired, though. Hey, Thomas and I can take care of it from here, if you wanna head back and get some rest.”

Ben frowns. “I…I really think it would be better if I come with you guys. I know where they are, after all, and the Cranks got past the barrier. If I come, we can get this done quick and easy.”

“If you’re sure,” says Minho.

“Of course I’m sure,” Ben says. “Come on, let’s go now. Maybe we’ll even be back by noon.”

Thomas tightens the straps of his backpack and the trio sets off. After about five minutes of even-paced jogging, Thomas, lagging slightly behind the other two, notices the radio clipped to the waistband of Ben’s jeans. He finds himself thinking about the group’s leader.

“Hey, should we tell Alby about this?” Thomas asks. Minho looks over his shoulder, confused. “I mean, he said Ben was, like, a half an hour away, so won’t he start to worry if he doesn’t show up?”

“Shank’s got a good point,” Ben says, slowing to a stop. Thomas and Minho follow suit, and Ben tugs the radio away from his belt and fiddles with the buttons.

A sudden static sound comes from the device, and Ben holds down a large button on the side and speaks into it.

“Alby, this is Ben. I met up with Minho and the Greenie. I found a set of jumper cables, and they’re going to help me out in getting them, and anything else we can grab. That all right?”

There are a few beats of silence before there comes a grainy reply. _“That’s fine, Ben. Just be careful. Don’t go getting yourself hurt, yeah?”_

“Gotcha. Thanks, Alby,” Ben says, and returns the radio to his belt. He gestures to Minho and Thomas. “Well, let’s go.”

* * *

They end up entering the old Walmart through a massive hole in the wall of the building. Thomas steps over the rubble and chunks of concrete, placing his feet carefully to avoid slipping on the white powder and plaster coating the linoleum floor. Once fully inside the building, it becomes blatant what created the massive hole in the building, seeing as how Thomas is pretty sure the huge ass _semi-truck_ is not meant to be at the end of aisle two.

The sight of the battered semi seems to be nothing new to Minho and Ben, seeing as they ignore it entirely in favor of jogging over and scaling up to the top of the shelf between aisles three and four like it’s routine at this point. _Which_ , Thomas thinks as he hastens to join them, _it probably is._

“So what—” Thomas’s voice is effectively cut off by Minho slapping his hand against his mouth. After a few seconds of silence, Minho raises his eyebrows expectantly. Thomas nods, and Minho lowers his hand.

“So what’s the plan?” Thomas says, voice a low whisper this time. It’s Ben who answers.

“We sneak to the back of the store and grab the jumper cables, along with anything else we can find. Then we get the shuck outta here.”

“Sounds good,” Thomas agrees. Ben eyes him for a moment, just long enough to make Thomas begin to feel uncomfortable. But then Ben just nods and turns away, beginning to slowly creep along the top of the shelf.

“Come on, Greenie. And keep your mouth shut; we don’t know where the Cranks are hiding in this place,” Minho says.

“Gotcha.” Thomas is careful to look before placing each foot down, stepping over broken and intact bottles of who-knows-what and dusty boxes. About halfway across the length of the shelf, Thomas looks up from his feet, and he sees signs hanging on the ceiling label each section of the store. Thomas is just about to tap Minho and ask where they are planning to go when Ben throws his arm out, and Minho stops so suddenly that Thomas staggers and grabs onto the back of Minho’s bag, and he nearly sends both of them over the edge of the shelf to keep from falling. Once steadied, Thomas releases his tight grip on his friend’s backpack and huffs a breathy, somewhat hysterical, laugh.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, shank,” Minho whispers. Thomas doesn’t reply but looks up instead to see the reason for Ben’s pause. Ben is staring over to their left, and Thomas follows his gaze. His heart, still pounding from his near-fall moments before, stutters in his chest.

The person in the front of the group silently gestures to the others, striding down the aisle below them. There are five of them that Thomas can see. He recognizes the solid black uniform. The word _WICKED_ etched across the upper right corner of their bulletproof vests in small, white lettering—barely legible from Thomas’s position—also gives it away. And, of course, there are the Launchers each of them is holding. The weapons are non-lethal, thus useless against Cranks, but they weren’t particularly created with the Cranks in mind. WICKED invented them a few months after the Outbreak, when people in their camp started rioting over the lack of a cure WICKED had promised them. The same cure that WICKED still hasn’t managed to engineer.

“They come this way?” asks the person leading the group, slowing to a stop just yards away from Thomas and the others. His voice sounds tinny, as if coming through the receiving end of a radio. The helmet makes it impossible to make out any of his features.

“Yes, sir,” replies a feminine voice towards the back of the group, not bothering to keep her voice down. She gestures with her Launcher towards the semi an aisle over, and the huge hole it left in the building. “They bypassed the semi and came towards these aisles. Based on how quickly we got here, they can’t be far.”

“Spread out,” the leader commands. “Find them. If you see any Cranks, dispose of them quickly and quietly.”

 _Which means they also must have knives on them,_ Thomas thinks. Once the group of WICKED soldiers is no longer below them, Thomas turns his gaze to Minho.

Who is already staring right at Thomas. They lock eyes for a fleeting moment, and Thomas is quick to dart his gaze elsewhere. Whatever Minho might be thinking, Thomas doesn’t think he can bear to see it.

As on edge as he is, Thomas nearly jumps out of his skin when Ben taps him on the shoulder. Ben pulls the radio free from his belt and turns it off. He clips it back into place and looks straight at Thomas. 

Ben begins to mouth words to him slowly. Thomas is hit by deja vu so strong he misses most of what Ben is saying, reminded instantly of the not-Crank who silently told him to run, and got shot seconds after. Thomas swallows hard and forces himself back to the present, concentrating in time just to catch the end of Ben’s sentence.

_“…barrier at the back of the store. We have to be quick. Okay?”_

Thomas nods and allows his hand to fall to his waistband, where his revolver—the one he stole from the bandit—is tucked away. It’s the only weapon he brought with him, opting to leave his Glock back at the house. Given how loud the revolver is, he despises the idea of actually having to use it. He wishes he owned some sort of melee weapon, like a knife of some sort, or even something blunter, like a metal pipe or something.

Minho tugs a hatchet free from the side of his bag (Thomas hadn’t even noticed the thing before), and motions to Ben, who does the same thing, only he wields a rusty crowbar instead. Thomas winces at the thought of how much damage those two weapons could do.

When Minho gives him a quizzical look and gestures to the hatchet in his other hand, Thomas just shakes his head. Minho nods and slings his backpack off, setting it down gently at their feet. He rummages around for only seconds before pulling something out and holding it towards Thomas. Thomas, of course, accepts the object. He turns it over in his hand and very quickly sees that it’s a screwdriver; smaller than Ben’s crowbar and not as dangerous as Minho’s hatchet, but it’s far better than nothing. He mouths a quick ‘thank you’ to Minho, who simply nods and pulls the bag back onto his shoulders. When Ben begins moving, Thomas follows.

Once or twice, they nearly cross paths with the WICKED soldiers. Each time, Thomas feels his heart try to leap out of his chest, pounding so loud that he’s shocked no one else seems to hear it. The Cranks, though there are more of them scattered throughout the store, are much easier to sneak around, their grunts and groans making it easy to locate them. It’s only once they reach a huge wall-like structure of miscellaneous objects that they stop, and Thomas breathes a shaky sigh of relief.

“This is where it’s gonna get hard,” Ben says, his voice a near-silent exhale. He glances at Thomas and, from their crouched positions, gestures down the barrier. “This barrier’s been here since Minho and me scoped the place out a few weeks ago. Even though the Cranks got through the wall, there’s still more of them on the other side. Be _careful_ , and be _quiet_. Okay?”

Thomas nods. Minho does the same and turns to Thomas.

“If you get the chance, grab whatever you can find. Ben and I have never really looked over here. Too dangerous. So there might be some stuff worth taking,” he says.

“Gotcha,” Thomas whispers, and Ben nods. He rises up to his feet and presses his fingers to his lips in a final warning to remain silent, and he half-jogs down the length of the wall. Thomas and Minho follow after him, speeding up slightly as they pass a large hole in the wall, and it can’t be more than a few seconds before they come to a stop.

“Watch my back,” Ben breathes to Minho, turning to face the barrier, where a shelf leaning on it seems to be a makeshift ladder. He steps carefully, and it’s not long before he’s crouching down at the top of the seven-foot wall of objects. Ben disappears over the other side.

“You next, shank,” Minho says, and Thomas moves forward. He climbs up the leaning metal shelf hyper-aware of where his hands and feet land. Once at the top, he waits for Ben’s signal and lowers himself down to the other side. Thomas hastily ducks behind the armchair Ben is hidden behind and they wait for Minho. A few moments later, the teen joins them.

Thomas can already hear the faint moans of Cranks, and he peeks around the side of the chair. A few yards down, Thomas can see the hole in the barrier that they’d passed. A Crank shuffles towards the hole and vanishes through to the other side of the store, where the WICKED soldiers are.

By the time Thomas looks away, Minho and Ben have already left the safety of the cover and are examining the items on the shelves. Thomas hastens after them. Once there, he finds himself staring in awe.

He’s never seen this much untouched _stuff_ before, not since the Outbreak started. _Someone must have gathered a bunch of stuff from around the shop and stored them here_ , Thomas thinks, because the crap is far too randomized to actually all belong right here. And sure enough, at the end of the aisle is a tent, pitched and zipped shut.

“Someone was living back here,” he whispers.

“That’s insane,” Minho says quietly, giving a small, disbelieving shake of his head.

“Well come on,” Ben says, unfazed by the sight. “The stuff we need is the next one over. Once we get those, we can come back over here and grab what we want.”

( _He’s already seen this; when he found the jumper cables_ , Thomas realizes).

“Sounds good,” Minho agrees.

Thomas grips the screwdriver tighter and nervously follows the other two to the end of the aisle. They step around the tent—Thomas’s gaze lingers on it for just a moment, and he swears he catches movement from inside—and Ben stops to look around the corner into the next aisle. After a moment, he leans back and turns to Minho and Thomas.

“There’s four Cranks, but it’ll be impossible to get around them without getting seen, and then they’ll just alert the others. We need a distraction,” Ben announces. His eyes land on Thomas.

Before he can get a word out, Minho cuts in. “No, not him; I’ll do it. I’ll go down a few more rows and knock some shit over, then climb up top. But you two better be quick getting those cables, cuz I don’t want those people coming back here to investigate.”

“Can do,” says Ben. He looks at Thomas. “You ready, kid?”

Thomas scoffs but nods regardless. He shifts his grip on the screwdriver.

“Okay,” Minho breathes. He slips away from them silently, swift in his movement down the rows of shelves. He glances down an aisle, then disappears from sight. Thomas finds himself holding his breath.

The crashing sound is near-deafening. Thomas has no clue what Minho did, but it sounded like he knocked an entire shelf over. Thomas glances into the aisle. The Cranks are whipping their heads around wildly, trying to locate the noise. Right then, a second round of bangs and crashes comes from a few aisles over. The Cranks stagger-run to the opposite end of the hall, then vanish.

Ben slips into the corridor and Thomas follows closely. So closely he almost runs smack into him when Ben stops.  
“Here,” Ben says, breathless. The sound of the Cranks’ screams and groans is nerve-wracking. “Open your bag. Hurry!”

Thomas fumbles to slip the straps off his shoulders and rips the zipper open. Ben stuffs the cables into Thomas’s pack and zips it shut.

“Minho! Minho we got it, come on!” Ben shouts.

And that’s when everything goes downhill.


	5. Chapter 5

“Minho! Minho we got it, come on!”

Thomas sprints back over to the aisle next to them. He unzips his back and proceeds to shove whatever he can inside (which turns out to be a lot, considering he left most of his supplies back at the house). Thomas ends up with a deck of cards in his hand somehow, but crams it into his bag anyway, following it with a pack of lighters, three cans of food, a few bottles of medicine and a box of bandages, a jar of peanut butter, four unopened packs of batteries, a hand-held flashlight that he has no clue if it works, and a few other things. After he can fit nothing else into the bag, he forces the zipper back into place.

Moments later, Ben comes darting into the aisle, two Cranks on his tail. Ben slows down once he sees Thomas, and consequently, the first Crank tackles him to the ground. The second one proceeds after Thomas.

Thomas dodges the Crank’s swiping hands and jams the screwdriver into the side of its head. It comes free with a gross _squelch_ of a sound, and the Crank collapses bonelessly.

A sharp cry catches Thomas attention, and he turns to see the Ben just barely fending off the Crank above him, snapping at his face. Thomas rushes over and uses the screwdriver once more. The Crank falls on top of Ben, unmoving.

“Gahh,” Ben groans. His eyes are squeezed shut, and for a panicked moment, Thomas thinks he got bit.

“Ben, Ben are you okay?” he asks, kneeling down beside him to shove the limp body off, but Ben waves him away.

“I’m fine, Greenie.”

Minho shouts from somewhere nearby, and Thomas stands up, hesitating.

“What are you waiting for, Greenie? Go!” Ben orders, already pushing the Crank’s body away. “I’m right behind you, go!”

Thomas does. He runs, looking down each aisle until he spots Minho. He slams to a stop and turns down the corridor. At first he’s terrified, because he can’t see any immediate danger. There’s not a single Crank in sight.

Then a Launcher grenade hits the ground by his feet, and Thomas moves just quick enough to avoid the crackle of electricity. Minho turns around, spots Thomas, and bolts towards him.

“Come on, Thomas, we gotta go!” he yells, grabbing his arm and yanking Thomas along behind him. Pounding footsteps behind them make Thomas look back over his shoulder. There’s three WICKED soldiers pursuing them.

 _The others must be dealing with the Cranks,_ Thomas thinks, half-hysterical in his terror.

He and Minho slip into the aisle with all of the supplies, Thomas nearly tripping over the tent.

The two dead Cranks are there, but Ben isn’t.

“Ben?” Thomas shouts, but the sound cuts off when Minho tugs him forward.

“Ben will be fine, we gotta go!” he says, coming to a stop at the barrier. By the time they could climb to the top, the WICKED soldiers would be on them.

“The hole, the hole!” Minho cries. Thomas almost crashes to his knees when Minho darts forward, still holding tight to Thomas’s sleeve, but he stumbles and regains his balance. They exit through the same hole in the barrier that the Cranks had been getting through, and Thomas breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the semi-truck and the gaping hole in the far side of the building. Minho releases Thomas and takes off in a sprint, leaving the younger teen to follow after him.

The pair zigzag back and forth, arcs of electricity flying through the air and grenades bursting around them. One skims along Minho’s calf and he yelps as it eats through the material of his pants and leaves behind a singed hole and a burn.

They’re causing such a ruckus that, chasing behind the WICKED soldiers is a group of Cranks, screeching and moaning.

They almost make it. The exit is looming before them. Running, Thomas slips as the plaster coats the bottoms of his shoes, and he stubs his toe on a hunk of concrete. Minho is a few feet ahead, already outside.

Just as Thomas’s feet hit the broken pavement of the sidewalk, something smashes against his back. Immediately a fiery pain consumes him, like a thousand bolts of lightning striking him at once. He collapses to the ground, wanting to scream but unable to. His vision blackens, and the sound of crackling electricity follows him into unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

His mouth feels like a desert. Thomas swipes his tongue across his cracked lips, but it does very little to help. He groans and opens his eyes.

He’s back at the house, that much is clear. The room is the same one he, Minho, Newt, and Chuck slept in the night before. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s actually on a bed, rather than the floor. And there’s weak sunlight pouring in through the window.

Thomas swings his legs over the side of the bed with a wince. A pounding throb begins in his temples, just enough to be annoying. He sits for a moment, thinking. He looks down at his arms and catches sight of red burns streaking across his skin in spider-webby arcs. Though they're already fading, the sight reminds him of what happened.

The store, the cables, the Cranks, the WICKED soldiers. Ben getting attacked and disappearing. Minho.

But if Thomas is back here at the house, he’s somewhat confident that Minho got the both of them to safety.

His backpack is leaning up against the wall beside the door. Thomas slides off the side of the bed to his feet. He shuffles over towards the window, squinting through the blinds. The sun, which he previously thought to be setting, is _rising_. 

 _How long did I sleep?_ Thomas wonders, stepping away from the window. He walks over to his backpack, sits down, and unzips one of the pockets. He tugs his water bottle free and takes a long sip. The water burns his cracked lips, and he snorts to think that he needs _chapstick_ right now, of all things.

One thing Thomas does notice, though, is that his bag is almost empty again. Everything he grabbed back at the store is gone, jumper cables included. Everything, that is, except the deck of cards, which is lying at the bottom of his bag. Thomas pulls the deck out and examines it.

It’s an unopened package, still wrapped in thin, clear plastic. He tears the crinkling plastic off and shoves it into his bag, opening the box of cards. The backs are red and designed neatly. He counts them. All fifty-two.

Thomas tucks the cards back into the box and slips it into his bag. He gets to his feet and finally decides to go downstairs and let the group know he’s awake. He opens the door and steps out into the small hallway, the wooden floor feeling nice and cool on his bare feet.

Someone’s talking downstairs. The murmuring voices stop as soon as Thomas hits the fifth step; the one that creaks. Still, Thomas continues down the stairs and rounds the corner to find Alby and Minho sitting in the living room. Both have their eyes on Thomas.

Minho smiles. “Rise ’n shine, Thomas. How was your nap?”

Thomas chuckles, the sound dry. He clears his throat. “Um, good. Just, um— how long was I out?”

“About ten hours,” Alby answers. Thomas’s eyebrows shoot up.

“What, really?"

Minho nods. “Yeah, that shank got you good. Lucky for us, the Cranks got to them before they could get to us, and I hauled you out of there.”

The room goes quiet.

“Go eat some breakfast, Greenie,” Minho says after the awkward pause. “You look half-starved.”

Thomas complies silently, leaving Minho and Alby to their conversation and padding into the kitchen. Newt and Chuck are sitting at the kitchen table, eating.

Newt sees him and he smiles in acknowledgment. “Good to see you’re not dead.”

Chuck twists around in his seat, and his face breaks out into a huge grin.

“Thomas, hey!” Chuck says, voice muffled through his mouthful of food.

“Hey Chuck,” says Thomas, ruffling the boy’s hair as he walks by. “Got anything for me to eat?”

Newt nods and gestures to the counter, which is taken up by food. “Yeah, Frypan dug everything out cuz we’re leavin’ soon, so help yourself.”

Thomas hums and does just that, grabbing a granola bar and seating himself next to Newt at the table. He hesitates, peeling back the wrapper, then asks the question he forgot to ask Minho.

“Hey, Ben got home safe, right?” Thomas questions, biting into his granola bar. Newt swallows his mouthful of canned pineapple and nods.

“Yep, he got back a few minutes before Minho came lugging you in over his shoulder. He’s asleep right now, actually, and so are some of the others. We’re leavin’ later today, I think. Now that we’ve got the cables, Jorge’s just gotta go charge up the battery in the car and we’re good to go. Alby said we’re headin’ for Michigan. I think Minho’s the one that managed to convince him of _that_ idea.”

Thomas glances over at the counter. The cans and the jar of peanut butter he’d grabbed are right up there with all of the other food, and Thomas feels a small tug of pride.

They continue to eat their meals in silence, and by the time Thomas is done, Alby and Minho walk into the kitchen.

“Newt tell you the plan?” Alby asks.

“Yeah, that we’re leaving later today. Heading for Michigan,” Thomas says.

“That’s right. Now do me a favor and go wake up Ben. It’s the room right next to yours,” Alby states, then turns to Newt. “Clint and Jeff are getting the medical stuff loaded into the vehicles, and Gally’s helping them out. Think you can go get Frypan and Winston up, get them to start getting the food taken care of?”

“Sure, boss,” Newt says with a half-smile. Alby looks to Minho and gestures for him to follow, exiting the kitchen.

“Chuckie,” Newt begins, rising up from the table, “go get the sleepin’ bags rolled up, yeah?”

“Okay,” Chuck agrees.

Thomas tosses his granola bar wrapper into the overflowing trashcan and leaves the kitchen. Right back up the stairs, he goes. He slips into their room first to tug on his socks and shoes, then goes to the next door over. The door is shut, like the rest, and Thomas knocks lightly.

“Ben? Alby says it’s time to get up,” he calls. When he receives no answer, he tries a second time. He knocks a bit harder.

“Come on, man. Alby said it’s important.” Which, he didn’t, but it’s worth a shot. Thomas listens closely. He swears he hears a soft groan of a sound. Thomas twists the knob and opens the door slowly. Once it swings fully open, he sees the teen on the ground, shirtless and ungracefully sprawled out in his sleep. Thomas snorts and walks over.

“Ben, get up. Alby—” Ben moves quick, quicker than Thomas is prepared for. He grabs Thomas’s ankle and yanks upward. Thomas crashes to the ground on his back, the air knocked from his lungs. Stunned and gasping, Thomas is too shocked to move before the stronger teen is crawling on top of him, snarling now.

Thomas stares into Ben's eyes. They're filled with pure insanity. Black veins bulge from his skin, and he shrieks so loud that it leaves Thomas's ears ringing.

“Ben, stop!” Thomas wheezes, finally shoving his arms against the boy in an attempt to push him off. But by then, it’s too late. Ben lunges his head forward to bury his teeth deep into Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas regains his breath just in time to howl in agony.

“Get off!” he screams, grabbing the boy’s hair and yanking him upwards. Ben unlatches his mouth from Thomas’s shoulder but immediately tries to take a bite out of Thomas’s face. Thomas braces his arms against Ben’s throat and his teeth smash together, a horrible _clack clack clack_ sound as he bites the air.

It stops just as quickly as it began. Ben is wrenched back off of Thomas and pinned down by multiple sets of hands. The teen squirms and jerks around, snapping and shrieking.

“What’s going on!” Alby booms, stepping into the room. His eyes land on Ben, on Newt and Minho, holding him down, and he stops.

“He’s bit. Alby, he’s bit!” Newt shouts, struggling to keep Ben still. The bite mark on his stomach is stark red in contrast to his pale, sickly skin.

Ben pulls free of Minho’s grasp and turns on Newt, who yelps and pushes him back with his feet. Ben crashes to the floor and rises up just as quickly, unfazed. He spots Alby first and starts towards him.

But before the Crank can reach the leader, a gunshot rips through the room. Ben drops. Dead.

Alby doesn’t lower the gun, though. Instead, he aims it right at Thomas, who rises unsteadily to his feet. The blood drains from Thomas’s face. He raises his hands to show his lack of weapons and swallows nervously.

“Alby, Alby look, don’t do this,” Thomas starts, struggling to keep his voice calm. “I can explain but don’t—”

“He bit you, Greenie, I see he bit you!” Alby barks. He gestures jerkily with the gun. “Right there, on your shoulder.”

Alby steps closer, eyes hard and unyielding.

“Hey, wait don’t, just let me explain,” Thomas pleads, voice beginning to rise. He’s careful not to look away from Alby’s eyes.

Alby levels the gun with Thomas’s face. 

“Don’t!” Thomas cries. “I’m immune! Alby, I’m immune!” 

“Bullshit,” Alby spits.

“No, I am! I’m immune!” Thomas insists, frantic. His eyes dart away from Alby and catch sight of Minho. “Minho, Minho you spent time with WICKED. You know I’m immune. Me, Aris, Rachel, and Teresa, remember?”

In his peripheral vision, Thomas sees Minho slowly start to nod. 

“Yeah,” Minho says, not a trace of hesitance in his voice. “The Chancellor called him and the other three ‘The Final Candidates’. They were the four that they were trying to use to engineer a cure.”

Minho moves forward; slow, steady steps. He places a hand on Alby’s shoulder. “Alby, I promise you, man. He’s immune to the disease. Don’t do this or you’ll regret it.”

Silence reigns for a tense second. Finally, Alby lowers his gun. He stares daggers at Thomas.

“If I find you’re lying Greenie, so help you God…” he whispers, turning around and striding out of the room. For a few minutes, the only sound is that of Thomas’s shaky breathing, Minho’s deep breaths, and Newt’s quiet ones. Thomas swallows past the lump in his throat. His shoulder throbs painfully, blood seeping through his shirt.

“I, um…” But he doesn’t really know what to say. Not one of them acknowledge Ben’s body on the ground, blood slowly staining the carpet.

“It’s okay, Greenie,” Minho says quietly. “Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

By the time they reach the living room, everyone else in the house (everyone alive, anyway) is gathered there already. Most look sorrowful, and some, namely Gally, look pissed off.

“We’re leavin’ early,” Alby states, voice oddly flat. “That gunshot will draw attention from Cranks, and there’s no point in waitin’ anyway. Fry, Winston, get whoever you need to help you and load the food and try to make it quick. Everyone else, get your bags and get in one of the cars. Except you two,” Alby says, gesturing to Gally and staring at Thomas. “You stay here.”

Everyone separates to do their individual tasks, and leave Gally, Alby, and Thomas alone in the living room. Alby reaches into the duffle bag at his feet and pulls out a length of rope and a knife. He hands both over to Gally.

“Tie the shank up, make sure it’s tight. I don’t want him able to slip ‘em. Then get him in the back of the truck. You’re gonna ride back there with him, you and someone else if you want. Keep an eye on him. If he tries to jump out, let him. If he starts to turn or shows signs of it, fucking shoot him.”

Alby leaves. Thomas turns to Gally, only to see the boy scowling at him.

“Let’s go, Greenie,” he says, shoving him towards the door.

The walk towards the three vehicles is quiet aside from the crunch of gravel underfoot, and Thomas is thankful, at least, that it’s not cold outside. The beige van’s side door is wide open, along with the trunk. The trunk is loaded with gas cans and other tools, and the actual van is still being loaded with supplies. There’s a pair of sleeping bags lying on the floor in front of the seats. As he and Gally walk past, Thomas counts the seats in the van, which add up to seven. He does the same for the car. The car is black and in a rather nice shape, considering. There are five seats in it. The truck, a solid blue color, and beginning to rust, has two seats up front, then a large bed. Four or five duffle bags—along with a sleeping bag, a few pillows, and a large tarp—have already been strapped down in the bed of the truck. There’s barely enough room for two people in the back.

As Gally nudges Thomas to climb up into the truck, Thomas thinks about the seating. They amount adds up to a total of fourteen, meaning Thomas really doesn’t have to sit in the back at all. _There’s fourteen of us_ — _thirteen_ , Thomas realizes with a cold chill. _There’s thirteen of us and fourteen seats._

 _Alby just doesn’t want me near the rest of the group in case I turn_ , Thomas thinks bitterly as he sits down. The bottom of the truck is hard plastic, and Thomas is immediately uncomfortable. Gally hops into the back after him, watching him carefully, and grabs a pillow from the pile of supplies to sit on. He stares at Thomas, and his eyes narrow. After a moment of contemplation, Gally grabs a second pillow and shoves it towards Thomas.

“Sit on this,” he grunts. “Won’t have you complaining the whole time.”

Thomas, though surprised by the action, does as Gally says and slides the pillow under him.

“Turn around and give me your hands, and don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Gally demands. Thomas sighs deeply but does as he’s told.

Gally doesn’t go easy on the ropes. He ties them tight, so tight that when he pulls on them to check, Thomas can’t help but wince as they dig into his wrists. Gally gives a small, satisfactory nod. Any thanks Thomas was thinking about giving for the pillow vanishes. Gally cuts the end of the rope with the knife and rolls up what he didn’t use, tucking it into the nearest duffle bag.

Thomas settles back down on the pillow, the strain from his arms being tied behind him pulling on his shoulders, causing the bite to throb and ache. Still, he leans against the side of the truck and closes his eyes.

Despite not being tired, he keeps his eyes shut and just listens, feigning sleep. He knows Gally hasn’t left, can hear the teen’s thick breathing across from him, and there are multiple times when he hears the gravel crunching, the grunt of someone loading something into one of the vehicles, then the crunch of gravel as they walk back to the house. It feels like an hour before the gravel crunching is much louder, and it stops all at once.

“Okay, everyone pick one and get nice and comfy. I’m drivin’ the truck. Jorge, you good to drive the van?” Alby asks. The man grunts something of an agreement.

“Good,” says Alby. “And Fry, you said you’d take the car?”

“Yeah man, happy to,” Frypan assents.

“There’s gonna be a few empty seats,” Newt says, his voice lilting with something Thomas doesn’t recognize.

“What’s your point?” Alby says.

“My point is,” Newt huffs, “Gally and the Greenie don’t have to ride in the back of the pickup. They’ll fit in the cars just fine. It’s not—”

Alby’s voice chimes over Newt’s. “I don’t care. I let you and Minho get away with a lotta calls, Newt, but I’m makin’ this one, and you’re not gonna change my mind.”

Thomas grits his teeth. Then he forces himself to relax.

“Everyone load up, we’re going. Newt or Minho, I want one of you two with me,” Alby finishes. “Jorge, Frypan, just follow me. You get tired, either of you, let me know and we’ll get you switched out with someone. And let me know if you’re low on gas, too.”

“Hey, Alby.” Gally’s voice sounds from so close that Thomas almost jumps.

“What’s up?” Alby says.

“Can I have the fourth radio? Y’know, just in case I need it,” he requests, and Thomas can almost feel the teen’s glance down at him.

“Yeah, ‘course you can,” Alby consents. “You let me know if there’s any trouble.”

“Gotcha,” Gally says, and Thomas wonders if he’s the only one that hears the smugness in his tone.

The gravel crunching resumes, and the truck door squeaks terribly as Alby gets in. The others must decide on seating arrangements pretty quickly, because the truck starts with a vibrating rumble, and they jolt forward. Thomas’s eyes fly open and he jerks, and instinctively tries to throw his arms out to keep from slamming into the back hatch of the truck. He only manages to strain his shoulders further, dig the rope into his wrists deeper, and he slams into the hatch anyway. He winces at the sharp pain that shoots up his arm.

Gally snorts. Thomas glares at him, but Gally just grins as Alby smooths out his driving and they start rumbling down the road.

“Asshole,” Thomas says under the breath, the sound going unheard over the roar of the truck’s engine. Gally must have read his lips and caught what he said anyway, as his smirk drops into a familiar scowl and he kicks him in the thigh. _Hard_.

Thomas keeps his mouth shut after that.

* * *

Thomas sighs. Scenery rushes past in a whiz of motion. He looks away, stomach churning. He is bored out of his mind, and his legs have fallen asleep from having them crunched up against him. He’s tried to go to sleep, but it seemed that every time he got close, Alby would hit a particularly deep pothole and Thomas’s heart would leap into his throat in the fear that he would fly out of the truck.

 _At least it stopped bleeding_ , Thomas thinks, looking at the bloodstain on the torn shoulder of his jacket.

A loud staticky sound comes from across the truck bed and Thomas opens his eyes to see Gally using the walkie-talkie. He talks into it for maybe five minutes before the truck starts to slow down. They park right in the center of the asphalt, as both shoulders of the road are visibly crumbling and unsafe. They are further away from civilization now. There are no houses or buildings in sight, and on either side of the road is thick undergrowth that leads into the trees.

The sound of car doors opening and shutting has Thomas looking behind them. Frypan walks forward, twirling the keys to the car on his finger.

“Hey Alby, how close are we to Michigan?” he asks.

Alby scoffs. “That depends on how many detours we’re gonna have to take. We’re already taking backroads instead of the highway, so I can’t say. If everything goes well, maybe another three, four hours. That’s if we’re lucky.”

“Shuck,” Frypan groans. He and Alby continue to talk as the others get out of the vehicles they rode in. Newt climbs out of the passenger side of the truck and stretches. Gally hops out of the back and moves to join Alby and Frypan. Thomas stretches out his legs and groans, allowing the feeling to come back to them.

“You good, Thomas?”

Thomas blinks and looks over at Newt, whose expression is one of concern. Thomas would wave him off, but his hands are tied.

“Yeah, fine,” he says, wiggling his toes in his shoes. Satisfied, he maneuvers onto his knees and rises to his feet. Thomas thinks actually getting out of the truck is going to be a bit hard, but Newt walks over to the back and nods to him. When Thomas jumps out, he stumbles forward, but Newt steadies him.

“Thanks,” Thomas mumbles. He rolls his shoulders back in an attempt to relieve some of the stress on them, but it just causes a jolt of pain to shoot through the bite wound. He grimaces.

“I’m sorry ‘bout them, about all of this,” Newt says, and Thomas knows he’s being genuine.

“It’s okay,” says Thomas. “I hate to admit it, but if I were Alby, I’d take the same precautions.”

And he would, if it meant keeping his group safe.

Thomas can’t help but think about that as he stretches his legs and glances up towards darkening clouds.

Ten minutes later, everyone is piling back into their vehicles. Gally covers the duffle bags and other things in the bed of the truck with the tarp and secures it down tightly. Alby and Gally must have talked because Gally replaces Newt in the front of the truck, and Newt—after helping Thomas back into the truck—goes to sit in the van. Thomas is left alone in the back of the truck, and they continue onward.

 

It only takes an hour and a half for Thomas to realize why Gally put the tarp over the bags, and for the rain to start coming down. At first, it’s such a light sprinkle that Thomas wonders if he’s imagining it, but it quickly becomes a downpour so bad that Alby has to slow down. Thomas is sopping wet and freezing in minutes, and the only good thing he can think of is that at least the rain is cleaning his bite wound.

He scoffs bitterly, the sound unheard to even his own ears over the lashing wind and pelting rain. Thomas tugs his legs up to his chest in hopes of some warmth, shivering, but it does little to help. His jacket isn’t thick enough to be much of a help either.

The previously blue sky is slate grey.

After about a half an hour of the rain refusing to let up, there’s a puddle in the back of the truck that is deep enough for the water to seep into Thomas’s shoes. He feels like crying. When he does, he can hardly tell the difference between his tears and the unrelenting rain.

The crying is actually rather therapeutic. He does so for maybe ten minutes, then finds himself exhausted to the point where he slouches down in the truck, uses the sopping pillow he’d been sitting on as an actual pillow, and falls into an uneasy sleep.

 

The flash of lightning is blinding, even behind his closed eyelids, and the following crackle of thunder temporarily deafens him. He opens his eyes and sits up to find that the puddle in the back of the truck has grown. It’s now drowning his shoes entirely. His feet are numb, his hands are numb, his face is numb; Thomas shakes his head but his hair doesn't move, matted to his head.

The rain has lightened up to a thin drizzle. The sky is gloomy and grey, but it’s still light outside. 

The blooming red light from the brakes has Thomas squinting, and the truck begins to slow. They turn, and the truck comes to a stop at the end of a long driveway. The house is surprisingly large.

Jorge and Frypan pull up on either side of the truck.

“Man, it was raining hard!” Chuck exclaims as he opens the door of the van and peeks his head out, the interior lights from the vehicle illuminating the area. He quickly pops his head back into the van to keep dry.

“Tell me about it,” Thomas mumbles. He doesn’t exactly mean for the boy to hear him, but he does, and Chuck immediately looks guilty, which was far from Thomas’s intentions.

“Oh, suck it up, Greenie,” Gally scoffs as he hops out of the truck. Thomas closes his eyes to keep his temper under control. He’s soaked to the skin, his body’s numb, and he’s sitting in a puddle of fucking rainwater. It’s like they’re _trying_ to make him sick, just so they have an excuse to kill him. Thomas wonders if that’s actually accurate. He hopes not.

“What’s the plan, Alby?” Zart questions, leaning out the side of the van.

“Well, I don’t want to hit a Crank or something while I’m driving, and I have a feeling the rain’s just gonna get worse, so we’re just gonna stay here until either the rain stops or we’re spending the night,” Alby says. “Three of you, I don’t care who, go check the house for Cranks. I want to make sure this place is safe. Everyone else, stay in the cars and stay dry. I don’t want anyone gettin’ sick.”

Thankfully, Gally is one who goes to check for Cranks, along with Zart and Jorge. They return shockingly fast, which Thomas supposes shouldn’t be surprising considering three of them went.

As everyone begins taking bags inside the house, Thomas stands up in the bed of the truck, and the water rushes off of him, dripping from his wet clothes. He feels miserable. He hops over the side of the truck and, without someone to help him, he crashes to his knees. He flinches as the rough pavement tears holes in the knees of his pants. He stands up, knees stinging and bleeding, and really wishes for a change of clothing entirely.

Brenda walks over to the back hatch of the truck and opens it, and a huge flood of water (which Thomas had been sitting in) comes pouring out. She crinkles her nose and sends Thomas a sympathetic look. He shrugs and regrets the action when it brings a new round of throbbing to his bitten shoulder. He carefully pulls the ropes binding his wrists just to have something to do. It burns, not unbearably so, and he pulls again, twisting a little bit.

That one, he regrets. The twisting motion makes the burning feeling turn into a sharp stinging that doesn’t fade very fast. Something slides down his hand and drips from his finger. He doesn’t know whether it’s rain or blood.

“You comin’, Thomas?”

Thomas glances up towards Newt, who’s looking at him expectantly.

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” he says, his voice rough. He clears his throat.

The sound of the rain becomes muffled the second they step into the building, and Thomas relishes the feeling of it no longer hitting his skin.

“I gotta go get some stuff. I’ll be right back,” Newt says. He steps back outside, followed by Jeff and Chuck. Thomas, unsure of what to do but unable to help due to his tied hands, walks deeper into the house. He finds Gally and Minho sorting through bags in the living room, supervised by Alby. Thomas sees his empty backpack among the bags.

Minho looks up for a moment and catches Thomas’s eyes. His lips pull downwards at the corners just a bit. “Hey, Greenie.”

Alby turns around, gaze darkening when he sees him. “Gally, c’mere,” he orders, and Gally abandons his task and saunters over. “Minho, get Chuck to help you. C’mon Greenie, we’re goin’ on a walk.”

With Alby and Gally on either side of him, Thomas feels exceptionally like a prisoner being escorted to his cell. Perhaps they mean to humiliate him doing it this way, but everyone who walks by makes no comment, no acknowledgment that they even see them.

“Here, upstairs,” Alby says. “Gally, how many rooms are up here?”

“Three, and a bathroom,” Gally answers promptly. “But the couch in the living room is big enough for at least three people, and the floor is carpeted so it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“I’ll take a bedroom,” Alby says after a moment’s contemplation. “Jorge can take the other and pick who he wants with him since he fixed up the cars. Gally, I’m leaving the rest up to you.”

“Fair enough,” Gally says with a small nod. “What about the last room up here?”

Alby gives Thomas a distasteful look. “Gotta keep the Crank somewhere.”

Thomas keeps his mouth shut, but it’s a near thing.

The door they stop at is at the very end of the hall. It’s fully intact, unlike the one in the bathroom. Gally pushes the door open and walks in, and Thomas immediately notices how clean and well-kept it is.

 _Probably used to be a spare room,_ Thomas thinks as Alby nudges him inside. Thomas breathes in and recoils at the terrible smell in the room. He opts to breathe through his mouth instead. 

Alby shuts the door behind them and turns to Thomas.

“This is how it’s gonna go, Greenie. You’re gonna be staying the night in here. We’re not gonna be giving you dinner because if you turn, that’s an unnecessary waste of food. Besides, it’s one meal, I’m sure you’ll live. By morning, you’ll either be turned or you won’t. Now, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna give you the opportunity to leave,” says Alby. Thomas pauses.

“What?” he asks. Alby nods briskly.

“You’d take nothing with you but the clothes on your back, but you can go. I won’t shoot you, nothin’. This is the only time I’m offerin’.”

Thomas furrows his brow. He knows it’s still raining (he can hear the muffled patter on the roof), but honestly, if he wasn’t absolutely _positive_ that he was immune to the virus, he would take Alby up on his offer.

As it is, Thomas simply shakes his head.

“No, I…. Tomorrow, you’ll see,” he says. Alby sighs.

“You really want to put us through that? You want us to have to put down another Crank? You really want _Chuck_ to see that?” Alby says. Thomas closes his eyes. Once he reigns in his anger, he opens them, and he doesn’t drop Alby’s gaze as he speaks.

“I won’t turn. The _bite_ might be infected, but _I’m_ not, and any medicine you have will probably be able to treat that. I’ll be fine, Alby, and no one here will have to see you kill me because I’m _not_ going to turn.”

Alby holds eye contact for a tense moment. He sighs once more and turns his gaze to Gally.

“Attach him to somethin’, then,” he tells him. “I don’t want to risk him turning and surprising one of us tomorrow morning when we come to get him. I don’t think this door locks.”

Gally nods and gestures for Thomas to follow him over to the side of the bed. Thomas does so, and Gally points at the floor. Thomas sits, and nearly gags when the bad smell from earlier becomes that much stronger.

“Bedpost okay?” Gally asks, turning to address Alby. The latter nods in assent and Gally nimbly unties Thomas’s wrists. The ropes barely come off before Gally forces Thomas’s hands behind the post and reties Thomas’s wrists together, even tighter than before. Thomas leans back, only to find that the post digs right into his spine.

“What, I’m not even allowed to sleep on the bed?” Thomas asks incredulously. Gally rolls his eyes.

“If you’re as immune as you say you are, you can sleep in the bed tomorrow, Greenie,” Gally says. He begins to address Alby once more. “I’m going to get something to eat.”

“I’m right behind you,” Alby states. He gives Thomas one last meaningful look.

“See you in the morning, Greenie.” 

The sound of the door shutting is chillingly final.

Thomas shifts so that he’s leaning his good shoulder against the wall. The position puts strain on his shoulders even more, but he still finds it to be an improvement.

“Why is everyone in this place so overdramatic?” Thomas asks the empty room, grumbling. He takes a tentative sniff through his nose and immediately regrets it. The smell hasn’t faded. It’s the familiar scent of decay that seems to be everywhere now, but it’s much stronger than Thomas is accustomed to.

He gags and turns his head, physically leaning away from the bed, where the smell seems to be wafting from. After a few minutes of light breathing through his mouth, Thomas decides he no longer feels like throwing up and turns to look at the side of the bed. From this level, he cannot see either below or above it, and the realization frustrates him.

Now with something to keep him busy, Thomas can’t let it go. He forces himself to sit still, but only manages for five minutes, before he begins fidgeting. He leans forward to try to peek under the bed, and slouches.

It’s darker beneath the bed, but there’s still enough light in the room to see by to make out the thing underneath.

A body.

While Thomas expected as much, it still makes his heart twist at the sight of it. The body is small, far too small to be an adult. 

The kid couldn’t have been older than seven.

Thomas can’t tell whether it’s a boy or a girl. He decides it doesn’t really matter. What _does_ matter is that the corpse isn’t torn open or showing any sign of trauma, aside from the thinness. The skin seems to be stretched tight over the bones, and Thomas could count each tiny rib bone if he desired.

“You starved, didn’t you?” Thomas says softly. He sits up so he doesn’t have to look anymore. He stares up at a yellow stain on the ceiling, heartsick and feeling far older than any sixteen year old should.

“It’s not fair,” he chokes, throat closing up. He doesn’t cry. He’s too tired for that.


	7. Chapter 7

He sleeps fitfully. By the sixth time waking up, exhausted and miserable, Thomas grits his teeth against the pain in his neck, back, and shoulders, and he decides to just wait for the sun to rise.

He’s just beginning to doze again, chin resting on his chest, when a heavy pounding rattles the door. Thomas’s head darts up, and he’s blinking the sleep from his eyes when Alby, Clint, and Jeff file into the room. Jeff shuts the door behind them.

Alby’s holding a knife.

“What do you want?” Thomas asks wearily. He glances over towards the room’s only window. The sun is rising.

“Guess you weren’t lyin’, Greenbean,” Alby says. If Thomas didn’t know any better, he’d say Alby sounds impressed.

“I told you I wasn’t,” Thomas replies, his throat feeling like sandpaper when he swallows. His clothes are still damp.

“Precautions had to be made. I’m sure you understand that,” Alby states, walking over and kneeling down next to him.

“Yeah, I get it,” Thomas agrees as Alby uses the knife to cut through the cords of rope. He nicks Thomas’s skin a few times with the blade, but Thomas just stays quiet as Alby unties him. The pressure on his wrists releases and the ropes fall to a mangled pile on the floor. Alby stands, hands the knife off to Clint, and offers Thomas a hand up.

Thomas takes it.

Once on his feet, Thomas feels an alarming rush of dizziness, but it passes just as quick.

“Our Med-jacks, Clint and Jeff, will clean up that bite of yours,” Alby says. Thomas nods, muscles in his neck stiffening, and glances towards the bed, remembering.

“There’s a body under the bed. Little kid must have starved to death,” he says dully, then opens the door and exits the room, unable to stand another second in there. Clint and Jeff hurry after him, but Alby does not.

The two teens end up in front of him, and lead him downstairs and into the open, quite large, kitchen. Through the window shining light onto the kitchen table, Thomas sees a swing set.

“Sit,” Clint says, gesturing to the table. Thomas complies, the hard wood of the chair still somehow better than the floor in that room upstairs. His back is killing him.

Thomas is so stiff that he can’t even get his own jacket off, let alone his tee shirt. Jeff helps him out of the jacket, but the shirt is a different story. It snags on the dried blood around the bite, and Jeff ends up having to use a pair of scissors to get the shirt off of him, then water to get the fabric to unstick from his skin.

Thomas can’t bring himself to look at the bite, even when Jeff winces at it. They say nothing of the still-fading bruises that Aris gave him.

The two Med-jacks, as Alby called them, patch Thomas up with a professional deftness that Thomas hadn’t expected from two teenagers not much older than himself. They bandage his wrists first, then move on to his shoulder.

Whatever the stuff is they pour on it, rubbing alcohol or whatever, nearly causes Thomas to pass out from the pain of it. Clint spews apologies, saying how it’s necessary to make sure it doesn’t get infected. Normal infected, not walking-around-trying-to-eat-people infected.

The stitches hurt, but not as bad as Thomas was anticipating. Still, it’s a relief when they finally wrap his shoulder in bandages and announce that they’re done.

“Nothing we can really do for the stiffness,” Clint says, sounding apologetic. “It might be better if you just lay down on the couch for a while. And if your shoulder starts to hurt, let us know and we’ll give you something for it. And if it starts to feel hot. That means it’s infected and we’ll have to treat it.”

Thomas says nothing.

“Are you hungry?” Jeff prompts after Thomas’s lack of response. “We have plenty to choose from since you brought all of that stuff back.”

Thomas feels that small tug of pride again, and he smiles. It feels brittle, but he smiles all the same. And while he’s not hungry in the slightest, he knows he needs to eat.

“Yeah, actually, that’d be great. I’m fine with anything. Thanks, guys,” Thomas says, meaning it. “Really, I appreciate it.”

“Sorry about the shirt.” Jeff nods towards the ruined, blood-stained fabric on the tiled floor. “We have a few extras with the rest of the medical stuff in case of stuff like this happening. I’ll go get you one.”

Fifteen minutes later, the sun now fully over the horizon and everyone beginning to wake up, Thomas tosses his empty pop-tart wrapper into the trash (alongside his mangled shirt). Jeff had gotten him a clean, light blue tee shirt, but Thomas still hasn’t put it on.

Instead of heeding Clint’s advice to lie down, Thomas steps outside. He, very quietly, shuts the squeaky door behind him and sits on the porch step, soaking up the feeling of the sun on his skin. It’s quite warm already, and Thomas knows it’s going to be a humid day because of the rain the previous night.

While listening for Cranks, and hearing the birds beginning to wake up, Thomas lazily examines the property.

The paved driveway is long and cuts the huge front yard right in two. While the grass is long and unruly now, Thomas can still make out a round shape that can’t be anything other than a soccer ball, sitting there, untouched.

 _It’s probably flat_ , Thomas thinks. A bit to the left, he sees the soccer goal. He wonders if the kid upstairs used to play. Thomas presses the unwanted thought back, harshly, and he stands up. 

He walks around the house, mindful of the fact that he has no weapon on him. There’s a large maple tree growing close to the side of the house. A few feet away, Thomas sees the swing set he saw through the kitchen window. He keeps walking. There’s a small, paved deck at the back side of the house. Thomas steps onto the patio and just looks.

The yard slopes down into a hill, dotted with pine trees, and at the bottom corner of the property, along the tree line, is a barn. Further over from those is a pond. A rather large one. The water level is low, and a crooked, wooden dock juts out into the water. Beyond that is the woods. Thomas can’t see any houses or buildings past that. Only trees.

He breathes in deeply and feels the thick moisture in the air settle in his lungs. But the smell of death is nonexistent out here. The air is fresh, and it’s amazing.

There’s something therapeutic about it. About being in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to keep you company except the sound of birds and your thoughts.

The illusion of being alone is broken when someone clears their throat behind him. Thomas takes in the view for another moment before turning around. Brenda gives him a curious look and she smiles at him.

“Minho and Newt were just wondering where you were. Chuck, too. In fact, he was starting to think you’d turned and Alby got rid of you until Clint and Jeff started talking to him,” she says. She pauses, looks at him. “You gonna come back inside?”

Thomas gives one last glance to the pond and the woods beyond, before turning back to her and nodding.

He follows her back into the house, and he’s immediately being wrapped in a fiercely tight hug.

“Ow, ow, okay Chuck, okay,” he says, wincing when the boy releases his grip.

“Sorry,” Chuck says, eyes growing big with fret. “Crap, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay, man,” Thomas says, walking with the boy to the living room. Thomas, struggling against the stiffness and soreness in his back and shoulders, pulls on the blue tee shirt. It’s a bit baggy, but Thomas attributes that to his recent weight loss. His previous shirt had been baggy, too. He just needs to start eating more.

Thomas looks around the living room. Everybody is awake now, and most are either eating on the couch or at the table. Minho’s chomping down on dry cereal right out of the box. Newt snags a handful and gets up from the table. Chuck settles down on the couch beside Frypan. Thomas sits next to Chuck, and Newt plops down next to Thomas.

“Want some?” Newt asks, holding out his hand in offering. They’re Cheerios _._ Thomas takes four of the tiny loops and pops them all in his mouth at once. Now that he’s eaten, having forced himself to eat both pop tarts earlier, he’s actually starting to feel hungry. He takes that as a good thing.

“What’s the plan for today?” Chuck asks. Thomas steals three more pieces from Newt’s hand when he turns to look at the boy.

“Alby says we’re organizing our supply bags, hanging out for a bit, then hittin’ the road again,” Newt informs. Thomas manages to sneak two more, and he’s going for a third when Newt turns to him, catching him in the act. Thomas smiles sheepishly and takes the third Cheerio anyway. Newt snorts and looks like he’s trying not to smile.

“Organize how?” Thomas questions. Newt tips the few remaining Cheerios into his mouth and crunches on them.

“Well,” Newt begins, swallowing the food, “we’re splitting stuff up. So that everyone gets about the same amount of food and medical supplies, in case we get separated or something happens. I mean, obviously, Clint and Jeff are going to have some of the stronger medicines because they know how to use them, but generally, everyone’s getting the same amounts.”

“That’s smart,” Thomas agrees, not bothering to ask if any of the supplies are going to come his way or not, because he really doesn’t know.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Newt says, taking a sip from his water bottle. Thomas, lacking something to do, toys with the stark white bandages around his wrists. 

“Well, we might as well get started,” Chuck says. Newt hums something in agreement and stands. He stretches, then settles himself on the floor. He pulls one of the bags up to him and begins pulling everything out of it, setting it on the floor around him. Chuck joins him, and soon, so do Thomas, Clint, Frypan, Minho, Brenda, Jeff, and Zart. Winston and Jorge join in a while later, and after them, so do Gally and Alby.

With all of them working, the task gets done surprisingly fast. Thomas’s pack ends up being pleasantly heavy with ammo, food, and first aid supplies, along with another extra shirt, a pair of clean socks, a set of matches, a flashlight, batteries, and other useful things. The spoils get divided evenly, Alby makes sure of that, and everyone loads the bags back into the vehicles. Thomas begins to pull his backpack over his shoulders, but then he remembers the bite. He hefts the bag onto his right shoulder, his uninjured one, and carries it outside with the others. He sets it in the van alongside Newt’s and Minho’s.

The group stands outside the cars. Thomas shifts back and forth, gaze darting towards the soccer ball and the goal in the front yard, of all things. Jorge follows his gaze, curious.

“We leavin’ then?” Newt asks. Alby hesitates but ultimately shakes his head.

“Nah. We can enjoy the place for a little while longer. But plan to leave at eleven. Good that?” Alby says.

“Good that,” Minho says in agreement.

Jorge nudges Thomas in the ribs. “Come inside,  _hermano_ , I want to show you something.”

And just like that, the group disperses. Most of the group stays outside, but some of them go in, like Jorge and Thomas. The two walk upstairs and into one of the other bedrooms.

“I slept in here last night, and I found a few things, this in particular,” Jorge explains, walking around the far side of the bed. He digs through the drawer of a bedside table. After a moment of rummaging through old knickknacks, he pulls out an air pump. Thomas stares at it, but Jorge just grins.

“Whoever lived here before, they had a boy your age who must have played,” Jorge says, motioning to a broken picture frame with a teenage boy in it. “And I saw you lookin’ at the goal. You used to play?”

Thomas swallows and nods. “Yeah, back at my old high school.”

Jorge grins. “I’d bet some of those other boys used to play too,  _hermano_. What do you say?”

 

Five minutes later, Jorge deems himself referee and pumps up the soccer ball, and the group delegates Newt and Brenda to be team captains. Brenda claims that she’s played since she was four. Newt says he used to play before he and his family moved to America, and when he enrolled as a freshman at his new high school in Denver, he was one of the best on the team. Minho protests that, which is how Thomas learns that Minho and Newt went to the same school before the end of the world.

“Rock, paper, scissors to see who goes first,” Chuck says from the driveway (their makeshift sideline). “Best two out of three.”

Brenda wins. Newt chuckles amiably and allows Brenda to pick her first teammate from the group of boys playing.

She calls Minho and gives Newt a wicked grin.

“Okay, then,” Newt says. “Thomas, get over here.”

Thomas, though taken by surprise, joins Newt. The boys get split evenly, into teams of four, with Jorge refereeing. Chuck, Clint, and Jeff watch from the driveway, providing moral support, and Alby is nowhere to be seen. Newt, Thomas, Winston, and Gally are on one team, while Brenda, Minho, Frypan, and Zart are on the other.

They switch it up halfway through from a scrimmage to World Cup, a game where teams of two try to score and the last pair is out. Newt and Minho team up, Thomas and Brenda, Gally and Frypan, and Zart and Winston. The first to lose is Zart and Winston, followed, surprisingly, by Minho and Newt.  Minho hops in the goal to block shots once he and Newt are eliminated. Then, it’s down to Thomas and Brenda versus Gally and Frypan. While Thomas has noticed that Frypan isn’t the best, Gally is a powerhouse and an excellent soccer player.

Minho throws the ball as hard as he can, toward the trees, and Thomas and Gally sprint after it. The ball bounces on the ground right when they reach it and Thomas manages to head the ball over Gally and back towards the goal. Brenda intercepts the ball and does a swift cut around Fry, then take the shot. Minho ducks and the ball goes in.

“Minho!” Gally huffs. “The point of being the goal _keeper_  is to  _keep_  the ball from going in!”

Minho rises to his feet. “I got scared!” he says defensively. Thomas, still regaining his breath from the sprint, laughs.

“It’s starting to get hot out,” Frypan observes, mopping his sweaty forehead with his shirt. “Hey, Minho, what time is it?”

Minho fakes a laugh and rolls his eyes. “Very funny, Fry. As if I haven't heard  _that_  one before.”

Thomas remembers that Minho’s watch doesn’t work and looks up at the sky. He squints. “Does anyone know how to read the sun?”

“I was a boy-scout,” Zart offers, looking upwards. “Yeah, I’d say it’s about ten…thirty? Honestly, I have no idea.”

Minho retrieves the ball from the goal. “Okay, everyone, game over. Get a drink, go inside, do whatever. Greenie, catch!”

Thomas’s eyes widen and he leaps out of the way of the ball when Minho hurls it at him. “Dude!” Thomas says, gesturing to his shoulder. Minho’s eyes light up with realization and he grimaces.

“Yikes, sorry Tomboy. Here, I’ll go get it,” he offers. Thomas shakes his head.

“Nah, I got it, I’m closer.” He flattens the grass as he trots over to the woods. Minho threw the ball  _hard_ , and as a result, the soccer ball is caught in foliage beneath the trees. Thomas steps past the tree-line, careful not to snag his clothes or skin on thorns. Old leaves and small twigs crunch underfoot. He hears the boys laughing and talking about something back over by the driveway, but Thomas is too far away now to make out words.

He lifts the ball and stands upright, but before he turns around to start back towards the others, he catches sight of something bright orange deeper in the woods. Curiosity taking ahold of him, Thomas tosses the ball back on the grass and hikes into the woods. The trees begin to get bigger, the undergrowth thicker, and Thomas nearly trips a handful of times. He can make out the orange thing now; it’s a tent.

Thomas steps into the clearing the tent is pitched in. He looks behind him. He can see the opening in the woods he came from, and that eases some of the worries from his chest. He walks a slow lap around the tent. The front flap is wide open and smeared red. Thomas hesitates, but he crouches down, looking in.

The inside of the tent is an absolute bloodbath. There are two separate piles of guts and bone that Thomas thinks must have been people at some point, and the buzz of flies is sickening. He stands up, stumbles back away from the tent, and barely misses his shoes when he vomits. Thomas empties his stomach, shuddering, and leans back against a large tree trunk, staring at the neon orange tent. His stomach lurches and he squeezes his eyes shut.

After a few minutes of mouth-breathing and thinking happy thoughts, his stomach settles and he opens his eyes. Stares at the orange tent. He spits, wincing at the bitter taste in his mouth, and steels himself.

This time, Thomas does his best to avert his eyes from the gore and instead looks quickly around the inside of the tent. Everything, it seems, has gotten blood on it. 

Underneath the mess of blood and guts, Thomas spots the barrel of a rifle. He thinks about grabbing it, but when he moves to do so, his stomach starts to churn dangerously, and he presses his lips together, willing himself not to be sick. He looks away.

In the corner nearest to him on his left, is a bright orange backpack, the same shade as the tent. Compared to everything else in the tent, it appears relatively untouched, and it's bulging. Thomas grabs the thing, hitches it over his right shoulder, and flees the site.

He kicks the ball along with him as he walks back over to the group, feeling weak and shaky.

“Thanks, buddy, what took you so long?” Minho says, glancing at him. He does a double take. “Thomas, you okay? You look really pale.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he replies, swinging the pack off of his shoulder and setting it on the ground at his feet. The others look from the bag to him, confusion clear on their faces.

“…Where’d you get the bag?” Winston asks. Thomas jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“It was back in the woods, in a tent,” he says. “I wouldn’t suggest going to look. It’s pretty gruesome.”

“Did you look in it yet?” Brenda asks, nudging the orange bag with her foot. “Seems pretty full.”

Thomas shakes his head. “No, go for it,” he says, turning to walk back to the house. He needs a drink, something to get the taste out of his mouth.

 

“Time to go.”

Newt finds him on the back patio, sitting in one of the lawn chairs and once again enjoying the scenery.

“Okay,” Thomas says, making no move to get up. Newt sighs and walks around the chair, blocking Thomas’s view. Thomas grunts in annoyance.

“There were lots of useful things in that bag, you know,” Newt says. “Not so much food, but plenty of medicine and ammunition. A few small knives, and a tackle box; y’know, for fishing. There was even a pistol in there.”

Thomas flashes back to the rifle.

He stands and folds up the lawn chair. “Should we bring this?” he asks.

Newt shrugs. “We don’t have to, but if you want, we can.”

Thomas shakes his head. He props the chair against the side of the house and follows Newt towards the cars.

“Hey, speaking of guns,” Thomas begins, “what happened to my pistol? And revolver?”

“Alby’s got ‘em,” Newt says. “I’m sure if you ask, he’ll give them back, though. Anything…sentimental, he left in your bag.”

Thomas nods, wondering what he had with him that would be considered ‘sentimental’. The pencils and notebooks, probably. Maybe the deck of cards. And…the letter.

 _But I never put the letter in my bag_ , Thomas thinks. He stuffs his hand into his pocket. It’s crinkled, and some of the letters are a bit smeared, but it’s still legible. Thomas smooths it out and reads it for the second time.

 

**Tom,**

**I’m really sorry about this. I tried so hard to convince you that we should go back to Chicago. But in the end, it was your choice.**

**By the time you read this, Aris and I will already be gone. We left your backpack with some food and medical supplies in it and your gun. Aris even left behind some of his ammo for you. It should be next to your gun.**

**Chances are you’ll never see us again. I’m sorry this had to happen. You might not think so, but WICKED is safe, Tom.** **WICKED is good** **.**

**Goodbye, I’ll miss you,**  
****

**Teresa** ~~**and Aris** ~~

 

Thomas scowls, folds it up, and returns it to his pocket. Newt glances at him but says nothing.

“Thomas! You’re riding in the van with me, Newtie, Chuck, Jorge, and Brenda, hope that’s okay,”  Minho says. Thomas agrees and climbs into the vehicle. Even with one empty seat, the van is crowded once everyone gets inside. The bags are to blame. Five of them take up the floor space. The rest of the supplies are in the bed of the truck, or the trunk of the car. Thomas gets comfortable in the back row of seats in the van. Newt ends up next to him, the third seat empty. Minho and Chuck are in the second row, and up front are Jorge and Brenda.

Thomas hears the truck start, and Jorge starts the van. Soon, all three vehicles are pulling out onto the road and they're once again on their way. The truck is first in line, then the car, and, finally, the van.

After about five minutes of silence, Jorge speaks up.

“Thomas, you see that duffle bag in front of you? Take a look inside, I found something else at the house I figured you might like.”

Thomas, frowning, unzips the bag in front of his feet. Right on top of the assorted supplies is a pair of shoes. While they’re clearly not new, they seem to have been treated well. They’re a sleek silver, and there’s no sign dirt on them anywhere. Thomas lifts one in his hand and turns to look at Jorge, catching his eye in the rearview mirror.

“These are shoes,” he says. 

“Running shoes,” Jorge adds. “Figured you might need a new pair.”

Thomas looks down at his feet, ready to get defensive, but realizes that Jorge is completely right. Thomas’s old sneakers have been to hell and back. He owned them before the Outbreak, and even then they were starting to wear thin. Now, they look close to falling apart, and Thomas finds that he can stick his sock-clad pinky toe out through a hole in the side of his left shoe.

“Huh,” he says. He looks back up at Jorge. “And how do you know these will fit me?”

“I don’t,” Jorge says. “But if they don’t fit you, they’ll probably fit one of the other boys. They sure as hell won’t fit me.”

Thomas took a look inside the shoe in his hand. “Yeah, actually, it’s my size.”

Minho snatches the shoe from his hand. “Eleven? Geez, shank, you got big feet,” he says, tossing it back at him. Thomas catches the shoe and sets it down back in the duffle bag. He pulls his old shoes off of his feet and tries on one of the new ones. He laces it up and wiggles his toes.

“Yeah, they feel pretty good. Thanks, Jorge.”

“No problem,  _hermano_.”

“Pssh, I can do you one better, old man,” Minho says. “Thomas, look over the seat, in the trunk.”

Thomas peers over the backseat of the van, wondering what could be back there. It’s the sleeping bags. On top of them is the soccer ball they’d been playing with earlier, with the air pump next to it. Thomas grins and turns around.

“Thanks, Minho,” he says. “Did you grab the goal while you were at it?”

Minho snorts. “Now you’re startin’ to sound like me,” he says, grinning.

“Hey, Brenda, is there another one of those CDs in the glovebox?” Chuck asks suddenly. The girl in question opens the glovebox and rummages around.

“Yeah. There are the ones we listened to yesterday and a few others. We got two CDs with Disney songs on them, a  _Beatles_  CD,  _Billy Joel_ ,  _ACDC_ , and there are a few unnamed ones. Wow, whoever drove this thing really had a variety of a taste in music. There’s even some rap stuff.  _Logic?_  I mean, geez.”

“As long as there’s no country,” Thomas says. Minho gestures wildly at Thomas.

“ _See?_  He knows what he’s talking about!” Minho says, and he points at Chuck. “You have a terrible taste in music!”

Chuck scoffs and starts up his own side of the argument, and Brenda decides on one herself. She inserts the CD, turns up the volume, and Thomas smiles when the beginning chords of “Piano Man” fill the van. He puts on his other new shoe and unlaces his old ones. He tucks the frayed laces into his pocket and hands his olds shoes to Minho, who rolls down his window and chucks them outside.

Minho whoops as they hit the ground, and Thomas breathes deeply. Instead of the stink of death, the people in the vehicle smell of grass and sweat. The opened windows providing a wonderful breeze to combat the humidity. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine that he’s on a road trip with his friends. While he would usually not allow himself to think such things, Thomas welcomes the thought. He leans his head against the window and dozes.

* * *

Upon waking, Thomas can’t recall any dreams he might have had. He deems this a good thing and blinks the sleep from his eyes. It must be sometime in the afternoon, for the sun is beginning its descent, and the heat isn’t as stifling. Everyone in the van is sleeping, aside from the driver, who has switched from Jorge to Brenda. The only sound now is the low rumble of the tires on the road. Thomas wonders why Brenda doesn’t put another CD in.

Thomas looks around and notices that the seating arrangements have also changed. Jorge is in the middle row next to Chuck, and Minho is now in the previously vacant seat next to Thomas, leaving the front passenger seat empty. Thomas, after some careful maneuvering, climbs forward and slides into the passenger seat, earning a small glance from Brenda.

“Hey,” he says quietly. Brenda hums in acknowledgment and opts to stare out the windshield for a few minutes, soaking up the silence. He’s still a bit drowsy, and he finds the hum of the tires on the road to be an almost hypnotizing sound.

“How long was I asleep?” he asks.

Brenda blinks, a thoughtful expression passing over her face. “I’m not sure. About three, four hours, I think. I’m pretty sure your body’s still trying to catch up on itself, what with everything that’s been happening.”

Thomas doesn’t know whether she’s talking about the incident with the WICKED patrol, the bite, or what he saw in the woods earlier, but he’s not about to ask.

“So, how far away do you think we are?” he asks instead.

“From Michigan?” says Brenda.

Thomas hums.

“Well, I’m not sure,” she says slowly. “I mean, we’re  _in_ Michigan, but Alby said we have a town up ahead and he wants to fill up on gas soon, let everyone stretch their legs.”

“Where are we gonna stay, then?”

Brenda shrugs. “Probably near one of the smaller lakes. Not the big ones, like Lake Michigan, Ontario, or Erie, those will be overtaken, either by Cranks or by bandits.”

“There’s bandits up here?” Thomas says, suddenly nervous.

“There’s bandits everywhere, Thomas,” Brenda snorts. “But we could get lucky and come across another group. Maybe trade some supplies.”

“You seem optimistic,” Thomas notices. She nods.

“It can’t all be bad,” she points out. “There’s no Quarantine Zones left in Michigan—no official or military ones, anyway—so there’s bound to be some groups of survivors, just like us. And I doubt WICKED would have followed us way up here. They probably think we’re headed toward Indianapolis, to the Right Arm.”

Thomas mumbles something of an agreement and they fall silent. Thomas hesitates in speaking up once more.

“Hey, Brenda?” he says.

“Yeah?”

Thomas chews on his lower lip. “…Do you think I’m… I mean, since I was with WICKED, do you…”

“Do I think you’re one of them?”

Thomas nods, a lump forming in his throat.

“No, I don’t,” Brenda says. “Not any more than me or Jorge. You  _left_ , Thomas. That makes you different. You’re one of us, not them. I don’t think you ever really agreed with what they were doing. It just took you some time to figure it out. No one blames you for it.”

“But I helped them,” he says, voice wavering. “I helped them convince kids to stay, and now that I’ve left, I’m putting all of you guys in danger.”

Brenda gives him a hard look. “Thomas, you’re putting this group in danger as much as Jorge and I am. As much as Minho is. We all were a part of that place, and we all got out. And if I have to kick your ass at soccer to get you to realize that, I will.”

Thomas cracks a smile, but before he can speak up, a static sound fills the van. Brenda snatches the radio off of the center console between the seats.

 _“Listen up,_ ” Alby’s voice rings. “ _We’re taking the next exit. We need to see if we can’t fill up on gas, maybe grab some supplies. Also, I want everyone going to the bathroom; I don’t want anyone complaining they have to pee once we hit the road again._ ”

Brenda grins and holds down the button on the side to reply. “Copy that, captain.”

She sets the radio back on the console between the seats and jabs her thumb over her shoulder.

“Wake them up, would you?” she says, a fond smile curving her lips. “I don’t know what it was, but once you fell asleep, everyone sort of passed out, and I wasn’t tired, so Jorge and I switched. Guess everyone needed a few more hours of sleep.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Thomas says, turning around in his seat to look at the sleeping passengers. He winces when he sees the angle Jorge’s head is bent, and Thomas knows that his neck will be killing him later.

By the time they’re taking the exit, everyone is awake. But once they pull into the nearest gas station, Thomas turns around to see that Chuck has fallen back asleep. As the van comes to a stop and Brenda parks, Newt ruffles Chuck’s hair and pushes at his shoulder.

“Wake up, ya lazy shank,” Newt says, climbing over the boy to hop out of the vehicle. Chuck grumbles, but he also gets out of the van. Thomas is stretching his limbs out when Alby walks over to the car, hefting four large jerrycans out of the apparently spacious trunk.

“We’re gonna split these. One per vehicle, and the extra one in the truck, in case something happens,” Alby grunts, setting the last one on the ground. Three are red and the fourth is blue. One of the red ones is full, but the other three cans are clearly empty.

“Dibs on the blue one,” Frypan says, grabbing the empty plastic container. Jorge shrugs and takes one of the empty red ones, leaving Alby with the full one and an empty one, and he situates the full one in the bed of the truck.

“Okay,” Alby says, shutting the hatch and turning to the ground, “we’re here to go to the bathroom and get gas. We’ve got a few siphons in the trunk of the car. Fry, Minho, us three are going to check the cars for any gas, got it?”

The two in question nod in agreement.

“Okay,” Alby confirms. He turns to look at the rest of the group. “Everyone else, use the bathroom, maybe try to find some useful things in the stores around here if you want, but be careful, and don’t take too long. Everyone in groups of at least two or three if you’re gonna wander off. Be back within the hour.”

With that, Alby walks over to the trunk of the car, pulling out the siphons. Frypan and Minho join him, taking one apiece, and they disperse to different parked vehicles, each towing along an empty jerrycan. Newt approaches Alby and the two begin talking.

Thomas turns to Chuck, about to ask if he wants to go with him, but Thomas doesn’t get a word out before the boy is shaking his head.

“I’m just gonna pee, then get back in the van. I don’t really feel like looking around,” Chuck says. Thomas shrugs and tells him that that’s fine, watching as the younger boy disappears into the gas station to go to the bathroom, followed by Zart, Winston, and Jeff.

“Wanna come with me, then, Greenie?”

Thomas looked over to Newt.

“Yeah, sure,” Thomas agrees. They make use of the restroom in the gas station and poke around a bit in the store. The shelves, however, are completely picked clean.

“Let’s go look down the street a bit,” suggests Newt. “I think I saw a convenience store a few blocks back.”

“Okay,” Thomas says, adjusting his bag on his good shoulder. Newt eyes him but says nothing. The two walk on in near silence, if one excludes the distance screeching of Cranks. The sound is far away, though, enough so not to be concerning.

“Oh,” Newt says suddenly, his stride faltering. Thomas stops and frowns at the boy.

“What’s up?” he asks as Newt pulls his bag off his shoulders and squats to the ground, unzipping the largest pocket.

“Here. I got these back from Alby. Figured you’d want ‘em,” Newt says, pulling something out from the bag. In either hand, he holds a gun.

Thomas’s pistol and the revolver he snagged off of the bandit.

Thomas slings his own pack off and onto the ground. He hesitantly accepts both of the weapons. He checks the ammunition in each, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find that both are still full of ammo. He tucks the revolver into his bag and hitches it back onto his shoulder, sliding the Glock into the waistband of his pants.

“Thanks,” Thomas says. Newt gives him a smile and a nod, zipping his bag back up and slipping his arms into the straps.

They reach the convenience store five minutes later. Thomas peeks in the front entrance and finds that the sliding glass doors have been completely busted out. Newt ducks under a piece of metal sticking out and enters the store, Thomas following behind him.

Mostly, the store is empty. But Thomas finds that, when one knows where to look, there’s actually quite a bit to salvage. He finds a small, unopened bottle of ibuprofen wedged underneath a shelf, a cheap thermometer still in its package, an unopened travel-sized bottle of shampoo, four batteries lying on the ground that may or may not work, a box of tampons (which he takes for Brenda’s sake), a pink lighter, a razor hidden among pile of wrappers and trash that's also still in the package, a pair of rather nice scissors, and two unopened bars of soap. Overall, he considers it a win.

“Find anything useful?” he asks across the store, making his way over to his companion slowly, making sure he didn’t miss anything. He moves a crinkled page of a newspaper and finds another battery underneath.

“Yeah, definitely,” Newt calls back. “I think I’ve got just about everything, though. You?”

“Yeah,” Thomas answers. “Some batteries that might work and some other stuff. A lighter, some pain meds.”

“Pain meds?” Newt asks, coming around the corner and into sight. His bag is definitely fuller than it had been before they came in, and Thomas wonders what all he found.

“Yep,” he says. “Ibuprofen. An unopened bottle. I’m pretty sure it’s a travel size, though, so there isn’t as much as I’d like.”

“No, that’s fantastic. Good work, Greenie,” Newt praises. Thomas gestures to Newt’s bag.

“So, what did you get?”

Newt grins and slings his bag off his shoulders to set it on the floor. He plops down, cross-legged like a little kid, and begins pulling out his findings.

“This was the largest thing. The box is in rough shape, but it’s not been opened,” he says, hefting out a severely dented box of cereal. To Thomas’s utter delight and somewhat nostalgia, it’s his favorite kind: Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Newt continues to spread his findings out on the floor around him. Two pens (which he gives to Thomas), a few packets of fruit snacks, a box of condoms, a crushed pack of cigarettes (though the cigarettes themselves are fine), a box of plastic cutlery, a hairbrush, and, to Thomas’s amusement, a keychain.

“Oh don’t give me that look!” Newt says when he sees Thomas’s face. “It’s a souvenir. Look, it says Michigan on it.”

Thomas grins and shakes his head. He doesn’t know why, but the thought that Newt takes souvenirs is oddly endearing.

“It’s too bad we didn’t find much, food-wise,” Thomas sighs. Newt shrugs and opens one of the packets of fruit snacks. He splits the pack and hands Thomas half of them, eating the other half.

“S’all right,” Newt says, tossing the empty wrapper on the ground and sounding quite unconcerned. “There’s other places to look. Plus, once we get where we’re going, I know some stuff about living off the land. My mum and I used to love camping.”

Thomas finds himself sitting down across from Newt, intrigued. He remains silent, eating the fruit snacks Newt gave him, wondering if his companion will continue. After a few moments, and heavy sigh, he does.

“Oh, it was great. It was something we did every summer, ever since I can remember. We’d pack up and drive. We never camped at a park. My mum liked to stay in the woods, to  _really_  camp. We’d set up the tent and relax and read and swim and just do whatever we wanted for a week. Once, we went to a spot and found these wild raspberries growing, and we picked as many as we could and saved them. We kept them in the cooler until we went home, and the first thing Mum did was she drove us to the store to buy pie crust, and we just baked a raspberry pie.”

Newt smiles wistfully at the tiled floor, expression equally pained and happy. Thomas bites the inside of his cheek when he sees the tears spring in Newt’s eyes, wanting nothing more than to give the boy a hug.

“God, I miss it. I miss  _her_ ,” he says, voice wavering. He looks up from the floor to Thomas.

“I’m sorry.” Thomas finds himself unable to come with something better to say.

“It’s okay,” Newt says. He clears his throat and shoots Thomas a watery smile. Newt wipes at his eyes with the bottom of his tee shirt and stands, sniffing.

Thomas allows Newt the time to compose himself, helping to pack up the supplies he’d strewn across the floor. The keychain lies there. Thomas glances up at Newt, but he is staring unseeingly at the floor once again. Thomas pockets the keychain, zips Newt’s bag, and stands.

“You…you good to go?” he asks, shuffling his feet awkwardly, not knowing what really to say or do.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Newt says, clearing his throat once again and blinking a few times. He notes his zipped bag and lifts it back onto his shoulders. Thomas doesn’t comment on his red eyes or his tear-stained cheeks, just leads the way back out of the store and into the pleasantly cooling air.

By the time they return to the group, the sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, and the sky is a stunning swirl of blue and pink and gold. Thomas dumps his bag into the van and leans against the side, looking up at the open sky.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Thomas glances over at Newt, who joins him beside the van. Newt’s staring out at the horizon, the setting sun casting a glow on his face and turning his hair into a golden halo. His eyes are brown and bright, his expression wistful and reminiscent.

Thomas is struck with the sudden realization that Newt is actually quite attractive, objectively speaking. Almost breathtakingly attractive, actually. Not like Minho, with his large muscles and sarcasm and humor, but in a way that Thomas has great difficulty explaining, even to himself.

The realization comes with bewilderment as to why he’d think such a thing, followed by an emotion that he can’t explain, but is certain that he’s felt before.

He’s still trying to put a name to it when Minho comes up and joins them, silently watching the sun’s descent.

“The sky looks amazing,” Minho says.

“It does. Hot pink and golden purple,” Newt says distantly.

_Hot pink and golden purple, indeed._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been being so damn patient to get this far, so here's your reward.

The moon is little more than a thin sliver, but the sky is so clear that the stars themselves almost provide enough light to get by. Thomas finds himself staring up at them through the window, dozing, awed at just how many he can see.

The static sound of the radio fills the silent vehicle, pulling Thomas from his sleepy thoughts. 

 _“Okay, guys,_ ” Alby says, voice surprisingly soft. “ _I’m guessing everyone’s about ready for a break, so we’re going to pull over here in a few minutes and park so everyone can get some sleep. Don’t worry about watch shifts; we’re all close enough together that it should be all right._ ”

“Copy that,” Brenda replies quietly. She’s still driving, but Thomas can see she’s getting tired. The van begins noticeably decelerating, and they pull off to one side of the highway, coming to a stop behind the truck and the car.

“All right,” Brenda sighs, parking the van and pulling the keys from the ignition. She reclines her seat so far that she’s almost lying flat, giving Minho very little room to stretch out. Minho grunts in annoyance, half-asleep himself.

“Get off’a me,” he grumbles, pressing his knees up into the seat. Brenda groans and leans the chair up enough for Minho to have space, and she turns sideways in her seat, propping her feet up in Jorge’s lap, who’s sound asleep in the passenger’s seat.

Thomas chortles and a yawn forces its way out of his mouth. He leans his head back against the window and looks up at the stars in a half-lidded gaze. Between one blink and the next, he falls asleep.

* * *

The sudden jarring motion causes his seatbelt to dig into his bitten shoulder, and the pain is so intense that it rips Thomas from his dream. He sits up and looks around wildly, disoriented and confused, shoulder throbbing in protest. He blinks owlishly and meets Minho’s eyes, who winces from the driver’s seat.

“Sorry! Sorry, didn’t see the pothole,” Minho says sheepishly. Thomas groans, leaning back against the seat and rubbing the tiredness from his eyes.

“I’m pretty sure I was having a good dream, too,” Thomas grumbles, voice raspy from sleep. He carefully rubs the bony, top of his shoulder, where the bite is. Chuck and Brenda turn in their seats to look at him. Chuck is grinning.

Minho laughs. “Sorry, shank. But hey, it’s your fault for still being asleep. Everyone else has been awake for a while. I was just convincing Chuck not to dump his water on you to wake you up.”

Chuck’s mouth drops open and he squawks in protest, turning in his seat to make eye contact with Minho in the rearview mirror.

“That's not true!” Chuck says, affronted. Minho cackles.

“Yeah, I know, but it was worth saying to see the look on your face!” he says. Thomas rolls his eyes. Still trying to wake the rest of the way up, and the pain in his shoulder diminishing, he notices an odd weight in his lap when it shifts on his thigh. He looks down.

“I thought you said everyone was awake,” Thomas says. Minho grunts and Thomas gestures to the head in his lap. Minho’s eyes soften.

“Ah, well, almost everyone,” he says. “Let him sleep. He’s had a really rough couple of nights.”

“We all have,” Chuck agrees, tone dropping into something mournful, and Thomas realizes they must be talking about what happened with Ben. In all of the extra excitement within the past few days, the whole incident had been pushed to the back of his mind. Thomas’s stomach flips when he recalls the scene.

“I, uh— yeah,” Thomas says, swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat. The head resting on his thigh shifts again, and Newt’s cheek presses against Thomas’s stomach.

Thomas once again looks down at the mop of hair in his lap. Newt’s features aren’t much more relaxed in sleep. The troubled frown that seems perpetually on his lips is still there, and Thomas wonders what he must be dreaming about. Without much thought, Thomas’s hand moves to Newt’s face, fingers running lightly over his forehead. The frown lines deepen momentarily, then smooth out. Thomas’s hand shifts to the blond’s hair, combing his fingers through the greasy strands.

Thomas thinks about his own hair. He knows it needs cut quite desperately, but Newt’s appears to need trimming even worse. His hair is close to touching his shoulders, a dangerously long length.

The longer your hair, the easier for a Crank, or anything, to grab you.

Thomas resolves to let Newt know that he needs his hair cut when he wakes up.

“You know what sounds nice?” Thomas says, looking up and breaking the silence in the car.

“Hmm?” Brenda hums, looking up from the book she’s invested in.

“A shower. A nice, hot shower,” he answers. Minho groans from the front seat.

“Don’t even,” says Minho, shuddering. “God, I’d _kill_ for a shower.”

“Well, Alby’s plan is to make camp at one of the smaller lakes,” Brenda says, relaying the information she told Thomas the previous day. “We’ll probably be able to at least wash up there.”

“Praise Jesus for that,” Minho says. His tone is so grim and serious that it elicits an unexpected laugh from Thomas. The second he moves his hand away from Newt’s hair, Thomas catches a tiny noise of protest and looks down at Newt in surprise. The frown has returned to Newt’s face.

Thomas returns his hand to the blond’s head, running his fingers through his hair, and the frown vanishes almost immediately. Thomas grins at the sight.

“How far are we?”

Minho huffs. “Chuck, we’re five minutes closer than the last time you asked.”

“Which is?” Thomas asks.

“Alby says about an hour. Probably two or three if we have any delays. He found a map in one of the cars we were getting gas from last night, and he decided on this remote campsite. It’s not technically even on a lake, it’s on the overflow from the lake, so there shouldn’t be much Crank activity at all,” Minho explains, maneuvering the van skillfully between two junked cars on either side of the road.

“How close is it to a town? You never know when we’ll have to make a supply run,” Jorge points out.

“I think Alby said it’s about a five-minute drive into town, so it would be a bit of a walk, but the campsite is pretty far off from the highway, which is safer,” Minho says.

“Once we get there, we need to see if we can find tents,” Thomas says. “Or RVs. If it’s a campsite, we’ll need something to sleep in. Unless there’s cabins?”

Minho shakes his head. “No, it’s an actual campground. No cabins. I’m guessing there’ll be some tents and RVs there, but if not, we could always check the town. If worst comes to worst, we can sleep in the cars.”

Thomas grimaces at the thought of sleeping in the cramped vehicles every single night with no privacy whatsoever.

“So it’s official? Wherever this campsite is, that’s where we’re staying? Like, for good?” Chuck asks.

The answer doesn’t come for a long time. When it does, it comes from Minho, who speaks with a voice trembling full of hope.

“Well, Chuck, if it’s safe? Yeah, I think we’re staying.”

At Brenda's request, they stop for a restroom break. Thomas, eager to explore the shops (and also having to pee), hesitates when he looks down and sees Newt’s face. It has to be somewhere around nine, ten o’clock, but the blond is still very much asleep. Unsure what to do, Thomas’s hand comes to a rest in Newt’s messy hair.

Newt’s face scrunches up, displeased, and Thomas lightly taps on his cheek.

“Urgggh,” Newt groans. He squints and looks around, eyebrows furrowing.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Thomas says, smiling so wide that it hurts his cheeks. Newt looks up at him and snorts at the grin on his face.

“Oh, shut it, Thomas,” he says, unable to keep a smile off his own lips upon seeing Thomas’s. Newt sits upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair looks positively wild from Thomas’s nonstop ministrations to it.

Newt looks like a toddler that got woken up from a nap.

“Your hair’s a mess,” Thomas states, slipping past the tired blond and out of the vehicle. Newt follows behind him, raking his own fingers through his hair in a failed attempt to smooth it down.

“Yeah, I need a bloody haircut,” Newt says, pushing the blond strands out of his eyes with a small scowl. “The reason I haven’t gotten one yet is cuz Clint and Jeff don’t want us using the medical scissors on anything non-medical.”

Thomas nods. He understands that.

“Well,” he begins, “I found a pair of scissors at that convenience store yesterday. Maybe those can be our ‘haircut scissors’.”

Newt grins.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Greenie?” he says. It isn’t phrased like a question.

Thomas is still debating on whether Newt wants an answer when the blond barks out a laugh and pats Thomas on his good shoulder.

“Come on, shank. Let’s go to the bathroom, then look around a bit.”

* * *

The store they chose to search has two Cranks wandering around, but they dispose of them quickly and efficiently. They return to the group bearing a small med kit, a half-full water bottle, a few cans of food, deodorant, a new notebook, a pack of unopened socks (Thomas almost cried when Newt found them), more tampons (seriously, Brenda owes him so much), and a butcher knife still stained with blood.

Minho grins when they return, eyes bright with something that Thomas can’t read. Newt apparently can, however. He shakes his head at Minho, rolling his eyes and muttering something under his breath that Thomas doesn’t catch.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

Thomas turns to find Alby, arms folded over his chest and expression thoughtful.

“And?” Thomas prompts, unsure as to where Alby is going with this.

“And,” Alby begins, “I’ve noticed you’re rather good at finding supplies. Great, even. Once we set up camp, you wanna be one of our Runners?”

“Runners?” Thomas asks.

“The people who go out on supply runs,” Minho interjects. “Obviously we can’t all do it, so we have certain people. Right now, that’s technically me, Brenda, and Jorge. Sometimes Gally. And Newt, if he's feeling up to it.”

Both Minho’s and Alby’s expressions become pained.

“Ben was, too,” Alby says. 

Thomas doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be a Runner.”

* * *

The remainder of the drive goes surprisingly smooth. They only get held up twice, once by a small horde of Cranks and once by a large cluster of vehicles stalled in the center of the highway, obstructing their path. The car issue was eventually solved by backtracking about ten miles to find an exit and a backroad they could take that would lead to the same place.

Thomas is just glad that they manage it. After the small detour, they merge back onto Route 127 and drive the rest of the way to their destination. They take the appropriate exit, onto M55, and, after a bit of driving around, realize that the town borders on Houghton Lake, which is freaking huge. An uncomfortable amount of Cranks roam around unchecked. 

The campsite Alby plans to stay at, however, is on the opposite side of the exit ramp, so they make a U-turn and drive back the way they came on M55.

“I thought you said the campsite is on the lake,” Chuck says with a frown. Brenda turns to face him from the passenger seat, Jorge back behind the wheel.

“Eh…it is,” Brenda hesitates, “kind of. See, the actual lake is by the town, but the lake’s runoff forms a smaller lake of its own, which is where the campsite is.”

Chuck “oh”s and seems content with the answer. Thomas is not, however.

“What about Cranks?” he asks. “With such a big town so close by, doesn’t that make it dangerous?”

“I doubt it,” Brenda says. “The town is a good hour away from the campsite on foot. Sure, there’ll be a few Cranks that trickle in, like always, but according to Alby, it’s a pretty remote spot.”

“But isn’t Houghton Lake the biggest inland lake in Michigan?” Newt says, accent growing thicker with his concern.

“Something like that,” Brenda answers. “But we’re not going to be on the lake. The campsite is on a smaller lake that doesn’t even have a name. On Alby’s map, it’s literally labeled ‘Dead Stream Flooding’. I think it’s in a pretty hidden spot.”

Brenda’s right, of course. In fact, it’s such a hidden spot, they drive right past the road they need to turn on and have to turn into a small rest area to get their bearings.

As they pull into the rest area, Minho just about throws himself out of the van when he sees that there’s a restroom.

“Thank _God_. I’ve had to pee for like an hour now,” he whines as Jorge pulls the van to a stop. Minho yanks open the door and takes off running. 

Thomas climbs out of the vehicle to stretch his stiff legs and looks around. The air is fresher here, and the faint sound of a river is impossible to mistake. Thomas walks over to the far side of the rest area and finds a gentle slope in the gravel that leads down to said river. The water is flowing lazily. Pebbles and shells line the sandy embankment.

“Wow,” he breathes. On either side of the river are looming trees. There are trees everywhere, in fact. The whole reason they missed their turn was that the trees hid the road they needed to turn onto.

A loud whoop catches Thomas’s attention, and he scrambles back up the slope to his group. Everyone is out of sight except for Brenda, Newt, and Alby, and Thomas assumes they’re using the bathroom. Newt, Alby, and Brenda are standing under a tiny wooden overhang. Thomas joins them to see what they’re looking at. Inside a glass case is a news bulletin with various articles. Thomas skims them, uninterested, and looks instead to the contraption at their feet. Brenda’s leaning over the rusty-looking pipe. She straightens up after a few moments and Thomas sees that her chin is dripping with water. He gets a clear view of the pipe.

It’s bent in an arc and the spout faces down towards the ground. Clear water gushes out of the bottom of it in an unrelenting stream. There’s a tiny circular hole in the top of the pipe, and Thomas looks at Brenda quizzically. She grins at him.

“Put your hand under the pipe and stop the water,” she says. Newt and Alby both back up slightly to give him the room to do so. Thomas crouches down, leaning over the pipe. He fits his hand under it, pressing his palm into the metal to stop the flow.

All at once, he gets a face full of ice-cold water. He splutters and raises his hands to wipe his eyes. The water flow returns to normal.

“What the hell?” he says, bewildered. Brenda is heaving with laughter, too hard to explain, so Newt takes it upon himself.

“The water is going so fast that once you plug the bottom, the hole in the top turns it into a sort of drinking fountain. Your face was just in the way,” Newt says, grinning.

Thomas feels like a colossal idiot. “Can I try again?” he asks sheepishly.

Newt laughs and nods, gesturing to the spout. Thomas, _not_ leaning over the top of the pipe this time, presses his hand into the bottom. Just as Newt said, the water comes shooting out the small hole in the top of the pipe and makes a small arc in the air.

Thomas drinks until he’s content, then steps away.

“That water is amazing,” he says, almost in awe. Newt nods.

“It’s spring water. It’s naturally cold and safe to drink.”

“It’s amazing,” Thomas repeats. The coolness of the water is refreshing, and the hotness in the summer air doesn’t seem as stifling.

When everyone else returns, they all fill their canteens to the brim with the water, and Alby circles the rest area on his map.

“Okay,” Alby says, commanding everyone’s attention. He smooths the map on the hood of the truck and the group gathers around him. He uses the end of his pen to point at the rest area, then follows the road back until he reaches Muskegon Road. He taps the pen.

“This is where we needed to turn. I’ll drive slower this time. It must be well-hidden,” he says. He follows Muskegon Road with his pen until it reaches a small drive. The campground isn’t labeled on the map. “This is the site. So, let’s go.”

Everyone loads up back into their respective vehicles and they leave the rest area in the direction they came from. They drive slowly, so Thomas doesn’t bother buckling up, as the pressure of the seatbelt hurts his shoulder.

Thomas knows they found it this time when Alby (leading the three vehicles) flicks on the truck’s turn signal, then Frypan follows suit in the car.

They follow the road for maybe a mile before turning onto a tiny gravel path. As they turn in, Thomas looks out his window and spots a large green sign with blocky white lettering.

 

_Reedsburg Dam State Forest Campground_

 

The sign just as soon disappears from sight and they bump down the gravel drive. It’s riddled with potholes; some are so deep that, if they were to hit them, they would probably get the vehicle stuck for good.

“Be careful,” Thomas cautions.

“I am,” Jorge says, steering the van around the numerous holes. Trees loom over either side of the path, leaves and branches brushing against the sides of the van.

The gravel path branches off into another path, and instead of continuing straight, Alby turns on the new trail.

This one is in even worse condition than the main drive. The van hits one of the smaller potholes and dips down.

Newt yelps at the jarring motion, his right shoulder knocking hard against Thomas’s left one. Thomas curses at the bolt of pain that radiates out from his injury.

“Shuck. Sorry, Thomas,” Newt says, wincing in sympathy and guilt. Thomas waves him off as the wave of pain fades.

“You’re good,” he finally says.

The enclosed trail opens up and leads into a clearing area. Picnic tables and benches are strewn about, and there are two cars in a small gravel parking lot. Alby stops the truck, and they pull in beside him.

Before anyone can get out, a Crank is pressed up against the passenger window of the van, snarling.

“Cranks,” Chuck whispers, pointing up ahead.

The Cranks aren’t in a tight group. They’re spread out around the huge clearing. There’s a lot of them, though; at least a dozen. And they’re all running towards the vehicles.

“Shit,” Minho curses.

“No guns,” Jorge orders. “That will just attract more.”

“What do we do, then?” Chuck frets. Thomas clambers up to the front of the van, nudging the boy.

“You, get in the back. Brenda, move back a seat and let me up front.”

Surprisingly, the two listen without hesitation, and Thomas slides into the passenger seat. The Crank is screeching and slamming its fists against the window.

“Someone pass me my screwdriver,” Thomas orders, holding his hand back. He scans the area up ahead and spots just the tree he wants; tall, with thick, low-hanging branches.

Within seconds, the screwdriver is placed in his outstretched hand. The rest of the Cranks are getting closer, too close, and Thomas’s time is dwindling.

“Jorge, guns are just about our only option here,” Thomas says. “I’m immune; if I get bit, it won’t turn me. Once I get out and they are focused on me, get out and take them down. Just, please, don’t shoot me.”

“Tommy, wait—”

Thomas doesn’t wait. He flings the door open as hard as he can, and the Crank leering at the window flies back from the force, dropping to the ground. Thomas takes the small amount of time that he has and hollers, loudly.

“Hey!” he shouts. The Cranks banging on the truck and the car turn to look. They don’t even pause, just turn and race towards him.

“Oh shit,” Thomas says. His legs want to freeze up on him, but he refuses to let them and breaks into a sprint. He dodges around outstretched hands, almost tripping, and reaches the tree at the far end of the clearing, right on the edge of a steep slope. Thomas’s heart pounds with adrenaline and horror when he realizes he overestimated his height. The lowest branch is out of his reach.

But the Cranks are almost on top of him, and he has nowhere else to go.

Thomas holds the screwdriver between his teeth and launches himself up the tree, rough bark tearing up the skin of his palms. He propels himself up to the lowest branch. He grabs the limb and hoists himself up. His feet flail and fight for purchase on the bark. He's just got his left hand on a slightly higher branch, shifting the screwdriver to his right hand, when the nearest Crank grabs his foot and yanks. 

He dangles from the tree, only his left hand keeping him from falling. Agony surges through his shoulder.

Thomas screams, kicking his feet at the Crank. It snarls in rage but doesn’t release its hold on Thomas’s shoe. Feeling his hand begin to slip, he grips the screwdriver tight and, as soon as the Crank tilts its head up, Thomas plunges the screwdriver straight through the Crank’s eye.

The Crank crumples to the ground, taking the screwdriver with it. Thomas’s right hand darts up and wraps around the branch, his grip solidifying.

He pulls himself up, feet landing on the lower limb. He stands, hands moving to smaller branches on either side of him to keep his balance as he stares down at the snarling mob below.

The gunshots are loud. Thomas hauls himself up a few more feet to ensure his safety, not wanting to get hit by a flying bullet, and watches as the Cranks drop, one by one.

As soon as the gunfire has ceased, footsteps come pounding towards him. Thomas, hands shaking, slowly lowers himself from the tree. Not wanting to land on a body, he drops down on the opposite side of the tree. He almost skids right down the rocky slope, so he falls back onto his ass to stop his momentum from propelling him forward.

“Thomas!” 

He stands, using the trunk of the tree to help him up, and walks towards his group. Minho and Newt are the first to reach him, followed quickly by Brenda, Chuck, and everyone else.

“Are you okay?” Newt asks, eyes raking over him to check for injuries.

While Thomas has no major wounds, his palms are scraped and bleeding, his ass hurts from landing on it, and his shoulder—

Thomas’s face contorts into a pained grimace. “I think I might have pulled my stitches.”

Clint and Jeff fall into full-on Med-jack mode, leading Thomas to the nearest picnic table and forcing him to sit.

“Jeff, go get the supplies from the car,” Clint says. He turns his attention to Thomas.

“There’s no blood coming through your shirt, which is a good sign,” he says. He helps Thomas to slip out of his shirt, and he surveys the bandages.

While there truly had been no sign of blood on his shirt, his bandages are soaked red.

“Ah, shit,” Clint says softly. He waits for Jeff’s return before carefully peeling off the bandages, applying pressure to the wound with a bundled sheet of fabric as soon as it’s open to the air. He has one hand against Thomas’s shoulder blade, steadying, to keep him from leaning away from the pressing pain.

Thomas pales and grits his teeth.

He takes the moment to inspect the clearing, trying to focus on anything but the pain. Mostly everyone has spread out, no longer hovering, and looking around themselves. Gally and Frypan are seated at another table, conversing heatedly over something. Newt is talking with Brenda and Jorge nearby, gesturing around the area. Chuck is pointing at something where the clearing opens up, and Thomas stares at the big, stone structure in the water, which he somehow had missed in his haste to reach his tree.

“God dam!” Minho says to Chuck, grinning when the boy bursts into laughter at the lame joke.

“How long are you two gonna be working on him?”

Thomas begins to turn towards Alby, but Clint hisses at him to hold still, shifting the fabric before firmly pressing down again.

Thomas groans and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Probably about fifteen minutes,” Jeff says, pawing through an assortment of medicines. He looks up. “I know you want him to be a Runner, but he’s not healed enough to do that yet. Maybe in a week or so.”

Alby nods, accepting the information without argument. “I need to talk to you two.”

“Can it wait?” Clint asks. At Alby’s unrelenting expression, Clint huffs a sigh and turns around. He calls to the first person he sees.

“Newt, get over here,” he beckons. Newt waves off something Brenda says with an eye-roll, jogging towards them.

“What’s up?” Newt asks.

“I need you to apply pressure while we go talk with Alby. Don’t worry, it’ll only be for a few minutes. You’re gonna have to press kind of hard, and it’s going to hurt him, but you gotta keep the pressure,” Clint says, standing up. The pain in Thomas’s shoulder recedes slightly when Clint’s hand lets up to give Newt the bloody fabric.

Newt takes Clint’s seat, straddling the bench, and reapplies pressure with his right hand, his left falling to Thomas’s shoulder blade to keep him from leaning away, as Clint had done.

At first, he only presses lightly, but it doesn’t hurt as much, so Thomas doesn’t correct him.

Unfortunately, Newt seems to realize this and presses harder.

Thomas can’t stop the pained whimper that falls from his lips, too focused on taking deep breaths and trying not to cry to be embarrassed by it. He wraps his fingers in the hem of Newt’s shirt, gripping tightly.

“You good, Tommy?”

Newt’s voice is nothing but gentle, and Thomas glares at him.

“I’ll never forgive you for this,” he says, biting out a small laugh that could easily be mistaken for a sob. Newt’s eyes soften even more.

Thomas hates himself for the swooping in his stomach and the sudden tightness in his throat.

He looks away.

Clint and Jeff return quickly, just as promised. Newt relinquishes his spot, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he hovers around the table, going back and forth between pacing and watching nervously.

It takes barely three minutes before Clint snaps at him.

“Either sit down or leave, Newt, you’re being distracting.”

Newt sits on the opposite side of the picnic table.

A few more minutes and Clint slowly lightens up the pressure until it’s no longer there, removing the bloodied fabric.

Thomas was right. He did pop some of his stitches. Three of them, in fact.

Jeff threads the needle while Clint uses a clean edge of the fabric and some water to rinse the area.

Jeff douses his shoulder with rubbing alcohol while Thomas is surreptitiously staring at Newt, and Thomas actually cries out from the bite of it. He raises his hand instinctively to press on the bite, but the Med-jacks stop him.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Thomas spits, wrenching his wrist from Jeff’s hold. The sting quickly fades.

After that, Clint shows off his dexterity and restitches the broken skin. He and Jeff rewrap the bite in clean bandages.

“All done,” Clint says, leaning back. “You’re gonna have to be more careful this time, though. Pop them again, and the scar will be a lot worse. We’ll take the stitches out in about a week, but until then, keep them dry and let us know if you feel any pain. _No_ heavy lifting. In fact, I don’t even want you carrying your backpack, good shoulder or not.”

“Okay,” Thomas agrees. He looks down at his stinging palms and frowns. He shows them to Clint.

“Think these will be fine?” he asks. Clint nods.

“Yeah, don’t worry about the scrapes. I mean, I’d rinse the blood off your hands, but they should be healed over in a few days.”

“Thomas, Newt, come look at this dam! Seriously; It’s so cool!” Chuck shouts. Thomas looks at Clint.

The Med-jack shrugs. “Go for it, just don’t get the bandages wet.”

Thomas grabs his shirt from the table and heaves himself to his feet. He waits for Newt to do the same and they walk over to Chuck and Minho. They join the others on a small bridge above the dam and Thomas looks around, leaning slightly against the metal railing.

The dam is what separates the lake and the river. The river ahead is actually rather wide, and the dam churns out the water so that the river flows dangerously fast.

The water rushing through concrete creates a sound almost like thunder, and Thomas finds it to be soothing.

“This is cool,” Newt agrees. Minho says something, but Thomas misses it over the roar of the dam.

“Look over there,” Chuck says, pointing. On the opposite side of the dam, there is a long dirt path in the grass, leading all the way into a deeper part of the woods. Closer, though, is a wooden staircase that leads down to a sandy shore of the river.

Chuck looks seconds away from taking off, eager to explore, when Newt clasps a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Now, just wait. We’ll have time to look around later. For now, it’s probably best to eat and then look about the campsite, yeah?”

Chuck grumbles. Thomas elbows him in the side.

“I’ll come down here with ya later, how’s that sound?”

Chuck’s eyes light up.

* * *

Alby leads the brigade of vehicles back down the bumpy path and onto the main one. The gravel quickly changes to dirt, the road widening, and the trees open up to reveal a large camping ground.

Campers and tents are scattered around, and even from here, Thomas can see bodies.

“Lucky for us, the gunshots from earlier drew out any Cranks that might be hiding around here,” Jorge says. “Except maybe the ones locked in the RVs.”

They park the cars in an empty campsite and walk around. Each individual campsite is rather small, but the place is clearly unoccupied, so they get the whole place to themselves, and it’s actually a decent sized campground. Some of the campsites border on the lake, with individual little beaches, and Thomas looks out at the water.

“Okay,” Alby says, gathering them around the truck. “Game plan: Everyone arm yourselves with some sort of weapon and sweep the area. Bring all supplies back here. Groups of two; Except Winston, Gally, and Jorge. You three are going to help me get some of the bodies out of the way.”

Clint and Jeff force Thomas not to partake, basically demanding that he sit and rest. Though reluctant, Thomas seats himself on the hood of the car and watches the others in boredom. 

After five minutes, Thomas is itching to go help, fidgeting with the shirt bundled in his lap, which he still hasn’t put back on.

After seven, he disregards the Med-jacks’ words and hops down, deeming himself rested enough to help out.

He stays as far from Clint and Jeff as he can, pairing himself up with Chuck and Brenda in the middle area of the campground and searching through tents and a camper.

They come across no Cranks, but the RV is chock-full of supplies, though most of the food is spoiled and rotten. It hasn’t been touched since the initial Outbreak, it seems.

Through the campground, Thomas counts a total of three campers (one of which is only a campsite away, and the other is across the entire campground). Definitely not enough for everyone to sleep in, even if they do two to a bed. Not to mention, the camper they checked is the largest one, and the smaller campers might not fit two to a bed.

“Our backs are going to hate us by this time next week,” Thomas whines.

“We’ll get used to it,” Brenda shrugs as they rummage through the nearest tent. “It’s won't be as bad as you think.”

 

Everyone slowly trickles back to the truck, lugging supplies and setting them on the ground at their feet.

Thomas doesn’t carry anything back, but only because when he tried, Brenda _stared_ at him until he put the bag down.

Seriously, that woman is _scary_.

“What are we doing with sleeping arrangements?” Minho asks. He’s no longer wearing a shirt, either. In fact, most of the boys have removed their shirts by now, the summer sun unrelenting.

Alby leans against the truck’s front bumper.

“The one RV is really far from the other two, which I don’t like. No one sleeping in that one, at least not for a while,” Alby states, frowning in the direction of the smallest camper. “But the other two are good. The bigger one is going to be a medical area, where we keep med supplies. If anyone gets hurt, that’s where they sleep. The other small one, we’ll just rotate on who sleeps in it per night.

“I want all of the tents moved closer to the center here, near the RVs. They don’t have to be touching or anything, but within, like, fifteen feet of each other at the most. _No one_ sleeps alone. At least two to a tent. I don’t care who sleeps in what tent, or who sleeps with who, that’s up to you shanks.”

Minho grabs Chuck’s arm and pulls him away to lay claim to the largest tent.

“Dibs on the big tent,” Alby calls after them. Minho whines. Alby grins.

“So there’s, like, canoes and stuff,” Newt says, gesturing to one.

Thomas frowns. “Those are kayaks, dude.”

Newt ignores him. “What do you want us to do with them?”

“Leave ‘em for now,” Alby answers. “Once we settle, we might use them to fish or something, but not yet.”

“Hey, Alby,” Clint says as the Gladers disperse. “So Thomas is good to sleep in the big camper bed tonight? I don’t want him on the ground when we just stitched him back up.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” Alby consents. “Newt, how’s the leg treatin’ ya? Your ankle okay?”

“Hurts a little, but nothing too bad.”

“If it gets worse, I want you joining Thomas in the camper. I don’t want to take any risks.”

“I’ve been meaning to take another look at it, anyway,” Jeff interjects. “See if it’s healin’ all right. I know you haven’t been wearing the ankle brace like we asked you to.”

“I am fine,” Newt snaps, annoyance creeping into his tone in a way Thomas hasn’t heard before. “Can you bloody back off?”

The air becomes thick with tension, and Thomas knows he’s missing something, but he can also see that prying is not the best idea.

He backs away from the group and half-jogs to join Chuck and Minho in moving the second-largest tent towards the campers. To his surprise, Newt follows him, expression still stormy.

As soon as Thomas begins to lift part of the tent, Clint yells at him.

“Shank, if you keep shucking lifting stuff, I will tie you down so you can’t!”

“Ooh, Clint, I didn’t realize you were so _kinky_ ,” Thomas calls. Chuck yelps, clearly not expecting the comment, and Minho howls with laughter to the point where he drops his corner of the tent, so Thomas sets his side on the ground. He turns to look at Clint with a grin.

“Fuck you, Thomas,” Clint says, even flipping him the bird, though he sounds much more amused than angry.

“You would!” Thomas says with a laugh. He motions to himself. “I mean, look at me; who wouldn’t want to?”

“Me,” Gally scorns, unwelcomely inserting himself into the conversation.

“Oh please. You’re just sad because _you’ll_ never get the opportunity to tap this,” Thomas scoffs, even feeling risqué enough to shake his ass a little.

Gally looks absolutely scandalized.

“You’re disgusting,” he says, voice filled with contempt and expression twisted in revulsion.

The look on Gally’s face as he speed-walks away has Newt joining Minho’s incessant giggles with his bubbly, mellifluous laughter.

Thomas just grins. Getting rid of the miserable look on Newt’s face? Definitely worth a little ass shakin’.

* * *

Thomas is nearly asleep when the camper door opens. He waits for someone to speak up.

Nothing happens for so long that Thomas is almost asleep again when someone slides under the sheets next to him.

“Who’zat?” Thomas mumbles, face mushed in a lumpy pillow and not wanting to open his eyes.

“Just me, Tommy,” Newt whispers. Thomas furrows his brow, no longer fighting the pull of sleep.

“Your leg feel okay?” he asks, recalling the conversation earlier. Newt says nothing, and Thomas is just about to utter an apology for asking when Newt’s hand finds Thomas’s under the covers.

He doesn’t intertwine their fingers, just rests his hand atop Thomas’s as he says, “It was a little achy, but it’s not so bad now that I’m in a real bed.”

“Oh. Well that’s good,” Thomas says quietly. They lapse into silence.

Thomas stares at the ceiling.

“Goodnight, Newt.”

“‘night, Tommy.”

 

And if Thomas wakes up to being Newt’s little spoon, the blond’s face nuzzled into his neck and their fingers laced together, feeling truly safe for the first time in over a year? In that case, Thomas just smiles, closes his eyes, and drifts back off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be an odd question, but it's one I have to ask because I'm on the line and I don't know what to do.  
> What do you guys think: smut or no smut?  
> Let me know in the comments!


	9. Chapter 9

“Okay, okay, how ‘bout from _The Office_ : Michael, Dwight, and Jim.”

Thomas laughs. “Based on personality or looks?”

Newt grins and folds his hands on the table. “Whichever you’d like.”

“Based on both, I’d say…. Fuck Michael, marry Jim, kill Dwight.”

“No wayyyy. You can’t kill Dwight!” Newt says, placing a hand over his heart as if he’s hugely offended.

“Well, what would you pick, then?” Thomas retorts.

“Obviously I’d fuck Jim, marry Dwight, and kill Michael.”

Thomas shakes his head and takes a sip of his water, musing.

“Okay: Harry Potter, Edward Cullen, and Christian Grey.”

Newt frowns. “Who’s the last one?”

“Christian Grey, like from _Fifty Shades of Grey_.”

“Oh,” Newt says, raising his eyebrows. “Well, in that case, fuck Grey, marry Potter, and definitely kill Cullen.”

“That’s what I’d have picked. Give me a hard one,” Thomas orders, stretching out on the picnic table. Newt is sitting on the bench like a normal person, but Thomas is lying flat on the table, using his shirt as a pillow, admiring the clouds. The thundering roar of the dam can easily be heard from here.

A dull ache has been twingeing at his shoulder all morning, but it’s not so bad that he can’t ignore it.

“Okay, I’ve got a good one. Minho, Brenda, and Alby,” Newt says. Thomas hums.

“This stays between us?”

Upon Newt’s nod of affirmation, Thomas answers, “Fuck Minho, marry Brenda, kill Alby.”

Newt laughs, but Thomas doesn’t know at which part. “Okay, how ‘bout this one: Gally, a Crank, and Donald Trump.”

“Well, wouldn’t Trump be a Crank, too, since he’s dead?” Thomas asks.

“So, Crank Donald Trump, a random Crank, and Gally,” Newt clarifies.

“Fuck Crank Trump, marry the random Crank, and kill Gally. No question.”

Newt had clearly been expecting this answer, for he laughs and nods.

“Hey, you two shanks wanna come with us?”

Thomas sits up from the table and looks at Frypan.

“Go with who where?” he asks.

“Me and Gally are going across the dam to the woods to look around. Alby wants us to check it out, see if we find any Cranks or, like, edible plants. See if there’s anything useful. And you two haven’t done anything productive today.”

Thomas mentally groans at the thought of Gally tagging along, but he agrees anyway, simply because he really is bored. Clint and Jeff haven’t allowed him to do much of anything, whereas everyone else is helping around. Thomas is just glad that Newt had taken pity on him and joined him in doing absolutely nothing.

“Yeah, sounds fun,” Thomas says, pulling his shirt on.

“If we find stuff, how are we supposed to bring it back? Any plants will get crushed in the backpacks,” Newt points out.

“It’s not like we have tupperware, but we can use some of the empty soup cans we’ve rinsed out,” Fry says. “I’ve got plenty, and we can always reuse them, plus the lids can go back on, and we can put them in the backpacks. Do you each want one?”

Thomas shrugs, the motion pulling on his tender shoulder. “Sure, that works.”

“Hey, wait a second!”

Thomas furrows his brow as Jeff comes jogging over.

“Can you guys wait, like, five minutes before you go?” he requests. “I still want to check Newt’s leg.”

“Yeah, man, that’s fine,” Fry says. “I’m gonna go get those cans.”

“Jeff, it’s fine,” Newt says as Frypan walks away.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you walk out of the camper this morning. Either your leg is hurting, or you and Thomas were getting up to stuff I don’t even want to know about.” Jeff frowns in thought, then directs a dirty look at Thomas. “Actually, you better not be doing that. You’re just asking to pull your stitches again.”

“We weren’t doing anything like that,” Thomas assures.

Jeff just chuckles and nods. His expression sobers and he gives Newt a small frown. “Still, it’s best for me to make sure it’s healing right.”

Newt says nothing.

“Okay?” Jeff tries. Newt grumbles.

“Yes, fine, sure,” he finally concedes, turning sideways to straddle the bench and propping his right leg up on the seat. Jeff smiles and kneels down in the grass.

Newt already has his shoes (and socks) off. He took them off as soon as he sat down and started talking to Thomas about half an hour before. Thomas looks, and he doesn’t know whether Newt’s right ankle looks slightly swollen or if he’s imagining things.

“Does this hurt? Yes or no?” Jeff asks, pressing his fingers against the arch of Newt’s foot.

Newt grumbles.

“What? I didn’t catch that,” Jeff says.

“Yes, it hurts,” Newt huffs. “Not terrible or nothin', but it does a bit.”

Thomas watches curiously as Jeff takes his time shifting his fingers around Newt’s ankle, checking both sides, then pressing up Newt’s leg until Newt is no longer saying it hurts. This ends up being around his knee.

“Yes or no?” Jeff asks.

Newt shakes his head.

Thomas wonders, not for the first time, what happened.

“Okay,” Jeff finally says, standing up. He gives Newt a hard look.

“Jeff, I’m not—”

“If you’re gonna insist on walking on it, you’re wearing the damned brace, Newt. It helps stabilize it. And neither you or Thomas is taking a backpack with you,” Jeff interrupts, tone brooking no room for argument. Newt narrows his eyes, looking ready to say something, but then he just sighs. His expression changes from defiant to miserable.

“Okay. Fine,” he says. He rubs at his face. “Want me to go get it?”

“No,” Jeff says. “Where’s your bag? I’ll get it.”

“Blue tent,” Newt says. As Jeff walks away, Newt looks at Thomas. “Oh yeah, I hope you don’t mind the tent. Once you’re out of the camper, that’s the one we’re sleepin’ in.”

“You’re not paired up with Minho?” Thomas asks, surprised.

“Nah, he wanted to room with Chuckie. I’m not sure why, but he was adamant on it,” Newt says. The tone of his voice makes Thomas think Newt knows exactly why Minho wanted to room with Chuck.

 _Maybe they got in a fight_ , Thomas thinks.

Newt seems to catch on to what he’s thinking almost immediately.

“No, we didn’t have an argument,” he says with a chuckle.

“Am I that predictable?” Thomas jokes.

“Predictable, definitely not.” Thomas turns to the Alby, whose expression is stern as he speaks. “But you are one dumb shank, I’ll tell you that. What you did yesterday—”

“Alby, don’t—”

“Now just hold on a minute, Newt, I’m not gonna yell at him,” Alby says as he walks up to them. He stops and fixes Thomas with a calculated look. “In fact, I was gonna thank him.”

“Really?” Thomas says.

“Yesterday, I’d ‘a yelled at you, but I thought about it some. I gotta say, that was quick thinkin’. It was stupid, and not well thought-out, don’t get me wrong, and I should have been consulted first, but it worked.

“Now, that said,” Alby continues, “I don’t want it happening again. Next time you come up with an idea, run it by _me_ first. I don’t want anyone confusing who’s the leader in this group. That clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good,” Alby states. His eyes linger momentarily on Thomas’s shoulder. “You might be immune, but you ain’t teeth-proof. Those things can kill you just as easily as one of us. So I’m going to make this clear: no playin’ hero. You’re one of us now, and we don’t do that self-sacrifice bullshit here. We work as a group. You get me?”

“Loud and clear,” Thomas confirms. Alby stares at him, and Thomas’s expression remains firm.

Alby seems satisfied. “Good. Now that that’s all out of the way, Clint told me your running duties are suspended for at least a week. You mind helpin’ out around here in the meantime? No heavy lifting or none of that, just looking around, helping keep Chuck occupied, that sorta thing.”

“Yeah, that sounds fine.”

“You seem to get into a lotta trouble, shank. That, or maybe you just got bad luck. I’d watch yourself,” Alby says, a look in his eyes that could almost be concern. He gives a short nod and dismisses himself, joining Zart, Jorge, and Minho by the nearest fire pit. Each campsite has one, and Minho and Zart seem to be attempting to make use of one of them. Jorge, with an amused smile, has gotten up to leave them to their devices, allowing them to work it out themselves.

He walks over to Newt and Thomas at the picnic table.

“Frypan told me you _muchachos_ are going into the woods,” he says.

“Yeah, we’re looking around and stuff,” Newt confirms.

“Well, when you get back, let me know what kind of wildlife there is. Birds, small animals, just let me know what you see. I want to talk to Alby about setting some traps or hunting, bring back some fresh meat for once,” Jorge explains.

“You hunt?” Thomas asks, taking a small sip of his water.

“I’ve talked around the group, me and Winston both do. Maybe when we get the time, I’ll teach you _chicos_  the basics.”

“Not me,” Newt says with a shake of his head. “Hunting’s not my cup of tea.”

Thomas snorts into his water bottle just as Jeff walks over.

“Here,” he says, handing a black ankle brace to Newt. “And for the love of God, keep it on.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Newt says, pulling his socks on before wrapping the brace carefully around his foot. He tugs his shoes onto his feet and laces them.

“Ready to go, Tommy?” he asks, standing.

“Yep,” Thomas says. He eyes the leather belt strapped across Newt’s shoulder. “You bringing your machete?”

Newt rolls his eyes and reaches his arm back to pull said weapon from its sheath on his back. “Obviously, shank. Jeff said we can’t bring a backpack, but you never know what might be in those woods, do ya?” He shakes his head, as though to answer himself, and sheathes the machete. He taps Thomas’s chest. “If I were you, I’d bring your gun or somethin’. Better safe than sorry, yeah?”

Thomas agrees with the notion, and he disappears into the RV to get his gun from his bag and a small pocket knife. He tucks it into his waistband and walks back over to Newt by the picnic table. Frypan has joined him in the time that Thomas was gone.

“Here ya go,” Frypan says, handing an empty can to Thomas. He gives him the lid, too. “Just keep the lids in your pockets, use ‘em when you’ve got all you want to get.”

“We going?” Gally asks, plodding over to join them.

“Yeah, we’re leavin’ right now,” Frypan says, tightening the straps of his backpack. “C’mon, then.”

Frypan leads them to a tiny, almost overgrown trail through the thick trees that leads from the campsites to the picnic area, the clearing where they are able to cross over the dam. They go past the wooden staircase and follow the long dirt trail that leads into the deeper part of the woods.

Once they enter the trees, the trail widens out some, enough to walk side-by-side. Gally and Frypan walk ahead, whipping up a conversation while Thomas lags behind to look around. He’s amazed by how clean the air is, how death-free it smells.

The forest is different than any Thomas has seen. Many of the plants look unfamiliar, and the trees are much different. The brown bark of the oak trees contrasts with bright white of the birch bark trees, making the birches easier to see. Thomas thinks it’s quite nice.

“It’s pretty out here.”

Thomas blinks back into focus and looks at Newt, grunting something of an agreement.

“I like the trees,” Newt continues. Thomas frowns, then raises an eyebrow.

“The trees?” he asks. “What’s so special about them?”

Newt grins and walks up beside him. “I just like the white ones. The birches.”

“I’m not used to seeing them,” Thomas admits. “They weren’t around where I lived.”

“Where did you live, Tommy?” Newt asks, sounding genuinely curious. Thomas shrugs.

“All over,” he answers. “We never really stayed in one place for too long. My parents didn’t like settling down, but we finally did in Kansas, just outside of Lawrence. We’d been there for three years, which is the longest we stayed anywhere.”

Thomas hesitates now. He kicks at a clump of dirt. “The reason we settled was because my parents wanted another kid. My mom… she was about eight and a half months pregnant when the Outbreak—”

Thomas’s throat tightens, and he finds himself unable to continue. He clenches his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Newt says, sounding genuine. Thomas doesn’t know what brings him to keep speaking on the subject, but he does.

“She was a girl. My mom had just decided on Kyleigh for her name,” he chokes out. He forces his voice to steady. “I don’t know if she’s…I have no idea."

Newt nods, voice strained with sadness. “I’m like that too. I have a younger sister. Her name’s Sonya, but I always called her Lizzy, because her middle name is Elizabeth. I was with Minho at the start of it all, but she was with our parents. I have no clue what happened to them, or if they’re alive.”

They lapse into silence.

Thomas feels oddly… _better_. He glances over at Newt, who is staring, contemplatively, at a large birch tree just a few yards off the trail. He crouches down to place his empty can on the ground.

“Tommy, did you by chance bring that pocket knife of yours?”

Thomas digs into his pocket to retrieve the knife and wordlessly hands it to Newt. Newt looks down at the knife in his hand and then looks at Thomas. He grabs Thomas’s wrist with his free hand and gently pulls him off the trail.

“Here,” he says. He hands the knife back to Thomas and taps the smooth bark of the tree.

Thomas doesn’t ask; he doesn’t need to. It takes about five minutes to carefully carve his mother’s, father’s, and unborn sister’s names into the tree. He places the knife in Newt’s hand when he’s finished and allows him to do the same with his own lost family members.

Newt handles the knife better than Thomas. His letters are smoother, not as choppy and blocky, and he finishes much quicker. He returns Thomas’s knife to him and stares at the names for a long moment.

Thomas’s own gaze settles on his feet instead, lost deeply in thought. A bird screeches loudly nearby, surprising Thomas back into reality. His eyes catch on something in the plant beside his shoe.

“Newt,” he says. “Newt, look.”

Thomas crouches to get a closer look. The berry is small, round, and bluish purple. There’s a lot of them. It’s not hard to tell what they are.

“Blueberries,” Newt says, kneeling down beside Thomas. He plucks one off the plant and pops it into his mouth. He smiles and eats another one.

Thomas tries one himself, and, sure enough, that’s exactly what they are. They're not as large as the ones his mom would buy in the store, but they taste about the same.

“Stay here, pick some. I’m gonna get my can from the trail,” Newt says, standing. Thomas nods and begins stripping the berries from the bushes around him.

As it turns out, they're _everywhere_. The bushes completely line both sides of the trail, and it’s only about a half an hour of picking before both of their cans are brimming with the berries. Thomas picks about ten extra and dumps them into his mouth, just because he can.

“There’s mint growing over here,” Newt says, sitting on the trail. Thomas walks over, stepping carefully, curious as to what mint looks like. 

“Mint?” he asks once he’s reached Newt’s side. He kneels down beside him.

“Yeah, look,” Newt says. He gestures at the ground. The bright green leaves are growing right along the side of the path. Unlike the other plants, the leaves are shiny. Newt picks a larger one and places it on his tongue. Thomas frowns.

“You just eat them?” he asks. Newt laughs and shakes his head.

“You don’t eat ‘em, you chew on ‘em. They get bitter pretty quick, though. Try one,” Newt says. He pulls a second mint leaf off the plant and shoves it in Thomas’s face.

Despite the fact that Newt said it was mint, Thomas is still surprised by how minty it tastes, considering it’s a plant.

“How did you know that’s what it was?” Thomas asks.

“When my mum and I went camping, she showed me a thing or two about plants. Mint is one of the easier ones to recognize,” Newt says, standing. He spits out the green mush in his mouth and begins chewing a second mint leaf.

Thomas nods and picks a few of the leaves, depositing them in his pocket for later. The one in his mouth begins to taste bitter, so he spits it in the dirt as he stands up. He eats a blueberry.

“What do ya think there is ‘round here, with the animals and all?” Newt asks, looking around. Thomas shrugs, swats at a fly buzzing around his head.

“Lots of birds. They’re not exactly quiet,” he says. “And I’ve seen a few squirrels, I think. I don’t know.”

“Definitely a lotta bugs,” Newt grumbles, smacking at the fly when it moves bother him instead of Thomas.

“There were like three cans of bug-spray in the big camper,” Thomas states. “You coulda put some on.”

“Slim it, Tommy,” Newt says with a playful glare. Thomas grins and flings a blueberry at him. It hits Newt on the forehead and bounces to the ground.

Newt snorts. “Real mature.”

* * *

When Frypan and Gally return perhaps an hour later, Thomas and Newt are sitting across from each other in the center of the trail, trying to throw and catch blueberries in their mouths. Thomas tosses one and Newt tilts to the side to catch it. He grins and bites down on the berry. Newt tosses one in a high arc, and it hits Thomas in the cheek.

“Are you two actually serious?” Gally scoffs in disbelief. Thomas jumps, quickly rising to his feet, and turns around, not having heard the two others approach. He looks down at Newt, wondering if he got the blond in trouble.

Newt just gives Thomas a lazy smile and holds up a hand. Thomas helps heft Newt to his feet.

“Sorry, Gally,” Newt says. “My leg was givin’ me hell, and Tommy here was kind enough to have a seat with me. We found a patch of blueberries.”

“So did we,” Frypan says with a smile. He shows his own can, which is also full of them. “They’re everywhere.”

“We headin’ back, then?” Newt asks.

“Yeah, it’s been long enough. Nothing all that useful, except the berries,” Gally says. Thomas picks up his and Newt’s full cans off the ground, and he hands Newt his.

The walk back is silent, but it’s a good silence. It makes Thomas feel at ease.

The cans full of berries end up going in the small camper on the other end of the site, the one Alby refuses to let them sleep in. Apparently, though, it’s a good a place as any for food storage. Better than a tent, certainly. At least squirrels can’t get into RVs.

Everyone sits around the picnic tables to eat dinner. It’s a mostly quiet affair, everyone keeping to themselves, and Thomas finishes early.

He’s just walking back to the large camper, to return his gun and knife to his bag, when he catches Alby’s voice.

“We need real food though. Berries ain’t gonna be enough when we run out of rations.” He’s sat at a nearby picnic table with Minho, brow creased in worry.

“I’ll take Jorge, Brenda, and Clint, and we’ll go on a run tomorrow. Clint will be good to know what types of meds we need to get. I know we’re running low on them, too,” Minho says. “It’s too late to go today, though. It’s already mid-afternoon. We’d get back after nightfall, and I don’t like bein’ out at night; especially if I don’t know the place yet. The town’s big, dude, and we gotta be careful. There’s bound to be Cranks hiding out in there.”

“You’re right,” Alby says with a small sigh. “Okay. First thing tomorrow then?”

Minho nods. “You got it, boss.”

Thomas drops his things off in the camper. When he steps back outside, Alby and Minho’s course of conversation has changed entirely.

“You really are starting to need a haircut,” Alby says.

“I know,” Minho groans. “It needs washed is what it needs.”

An idea strikes Thomas then. He twists around and goes right back into the RV. He joins Alby and Minho at the table.

“Oh, hey, Greenie,” Alby says. 

“What’s up, Thomas?” Minho says. Thomas sets his things on the table. Minho quirks an eyebrow at the travel bottle of shampoo and the pair of scissors. He connects the dots and snorts, loudly.

“Heard our conversation?” he asks.

“Yeah; I mean, I figured most of us probably need a haircut and wash at this point,” Thomas says.

“Truer words have never come out of that shuck mouth of yours,” Minho says, grinning as he snatches the shampoo. He reads over the label. “You gonna cut my hair for me, Tommy?”

“If you agree to never call me that again,” Thomas says, only half-joking. Minho rolls his eyes.

“Of course Newt would get to call you the fancy nickname.”

Thomas opens his mouth, but Minho shushes him with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t matter, Greenie, doesn’t hurt my feelings any. Now come here, you totally just promised to cut my hair.”

They end up moving to a table a small way off from the others, one right by the lake. Alby had claimed he didn’t want hair everywhere; Thomas and Minho couldn’t care less, but they moved at Alby’s request.

“No promises it’s gonna look good,” Thomas warns. Minho pulls off his shirt.

“Not like it matters. But I’m me, so I’ll look good no matter how badly you shuck up my beautiful hair.”

Thomas snorts at that, and he begins cutting. Mostly he just shortens it in the back, but he trims it in the front at Minho’s request and leaves him with a surprisingly not bad result.

“Not that you can see it or anything, but it’s actually not too bad,” Thomas says.

Minho hums. “I need a second opinion on that. Newt! Get your skinny butt over here!”

Newt and Chuck both make their way over. Newt bites his lip when he sees Minho’s new hairdo, and Chuck raises his eyebrows.

“It’s not bad,” Newt says slowly. “I mean, it’s a little uneven on the sides, but it really doesn’t matter. You sure you don’t want it shorter, though? It’s still kind of long in the front.”

“I like it longer in the front,” Minho says. “You know my style, Newt. If I had hair gel, I’d pull it up, like I used to do.”

“Wash it,” Thomas suggests. “Style it up when it’s wet, and it should dry that way.”

Minho slaps him on the back. “I knew I liked you for a reason, shank.”

He takes the bottle of shampoo with him, strips down to his undies, and wades into the lake without hesitation.

Chuck cackles at the sight and Minho coaxes the younger boy into joining him in the water, and soon enough, Frypan, Clint, Jorge, Brenda, and even Gally end up in the lake, swimming around, wrestling, and playing chicken. Alby shocks all of them when he joins in.

Thomas finds it amusing to watch, wishing he could join them, but unable to because of his shoulder and his lack of ability to swim.

“Wanna get in, don’t ya?” Newt asks, sitting down next to Thomas at the picnic table.

Thomas nods.

“Here then,” Newt says. He tugs his shirt off and drops it on the table. “Cut my hair, it’ll give ya somethin’ to do.”

“You sure?” Thomas says. “You saw how Minho’s turned out.”

“Shank, it don’t matter if it looks pretty,” Newt laughs. “And you didn’t do a bad job on Minho’s at all.”

“Okay, okay,” Thomas chuckles. He grabs the scissors from the table and moves to stand behind Newt. “You care how short I go?”

“Nothin’ resembling a buzzcut,” Newt says. “I had one of those the first ten years of my life. I never want to go back.”

Thomas laughs and snips the blades through Newt’s hair. His is much longer than Minho’s, brushing his shoulders.

Thomas cuts it so that it rests on his forehead and it’s short in the back. A few longer stands curl around his ears. It looks messier, but Thomas thinks it’s a good sort of messy; the kind he used to go for back in school.

“I’m done.”

Newt releases a long whistle, grabbing a long lock of blond hair off the ground and looking at it. “Damn, was it really this long? Hell, I must’ve looked bloody horrendous.”

“Who says you don’t still?” Thomas points out, grinning. Newt rolls his eyes.

“You’re real funny, Thomas.” He stands, drops the hair to the ground, and points at the bench. “Sit your butt down. It’s your turn.”

Thomas pauses, surprised. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m bloody sure. You need it,” Newt says. He pulls the scissors from Thomas’s fingers and gestures for him to sit. Thomas, like Newt and Minho, peels his shirt off first, tossing it onto the table.

“Okay, have at it,” Thomas says.

It takes about fifteen minutes. When Newt announces he’s finished, Thomas opens his eyes and looks straight down at his lap. There are short, dark brown hairs on his pants and some stuck to his sweaty chest. He runs his fingers through his hair, marveling at how short it feels compared to how it did before.

“Thanks, now I can actually see,” Thomas says. It’s true, though; his hair is no longer hanging in his eyes. It’s about time.

“You look loads better,” Newt says. “I did a bloody good job, if I do say so myself.”

Thomas laughs. “Okay, Mister Cocky.”

Newt sits down beside him. He looks like a new person with his newly cut hair; he looks _happier_. It takes a moment, but Thomas somehow doesn’t think it was the haircut that managed to put that look on Newt’s face. Whatever it was, though, Thomas has no clue.

“What’s that look for?” he finally asks. Newt shrugs.

“I’m just glad everyone’s finally havin’ a good time, ya know? It was really rough for a while there. I was worried we’d start having fighting in our group,” Newt says.

“Where’s Winston, Zart, and Jeff?” Thomas says, looking over at the cluster of tents. “They’re the only ones besides us who aren't in the lake.”

Newt shrugs. “Could be takin’ naps. Or doing other stuff. Everyone needs some time to relax by themselves, Tommy.”

Thomas doesn’t know if Newt means that the way Thomas takes it, but he feels his ears getting hot anyway. He looks out at the water.

Newt doesn’t seem to notice. “Wish I could join ‘em.”

Thomas frowns, glancing at Newt. “You…wish you could join Winston, Zart, and Jeff during their ‘alone time’?”

A laugh bursts from Newt’s mouth, but he keeps his eyes on the boys in the lake. “No, you bloody idiot,” he says with an odd smile. “I wish I could join Minho and Alby and them.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“Got a bum leg, now don’t I?” Newt says. He shakes his head. “Don’t think I’d be able to keep myself up for too long swimming. I suppose I could stay in the shallow end, but then who would be here to talk with you?”

Thomas feels touched. His eyes finally pull away from where Minho and Gally are wrestling in the water, and he looks at Newt. Really _looks_ at him.

“If you want to get in, there’s the shore by the river,” Thomas suggests. “It’s not as deep. I want to rinse the hair off me, anyway.”

Newt hums, and he grabs both of their shirts, throwing Thomas’s at him. “Yeah, I do too. Sure, let’s go.”

As they walk, Thomas notices that Newt is favoring his bad leg. They reach the wooden staircase on the far side of the dam, and Thomas walks down the rotting stairs carefully, not wanting to trip.

They stand on the small beach. Newt puts his hands on his hips.

“Cutesy little spot, isn’t it?” 

Thomas nods, sitting down to pull off his shoes and socks. He absently draws a spiral in the sand with his finger. Newt sits next to him, taking off his own footwear (and his brace), and they watch the river rush by in front of them. Towards either shore, the water moves much slower than the middle.

“I’m getting in,” Thomas says, an edge of determination in his voice. He stands, rolls his jeans up to mid-calf, and wades into the shallow water. It’s freezing and laps at his ankles, and it feels wonderful. When he moves to step a little deeper, something darts under his foot.

Thomas lets out a strangled yelp and pulls his foot back, staggering backward out of the water.

“Woah!” he says, eyes wide as he searches the sandy floor of the river.

“What is it?” Newt says, moving to join him.

“There was, like, a baby lobster or something. I almost stepped on it,” Thomas says. Newt cracks up laughing. Thomas doesn’t know what’s so funny.

“Baby lobster,” Newt hiccups, “oh, that’s bloody _hilarious_. It’s called a _crawdad_ , Tommy.”

“Well, it looked like a tiny lobster,” Thomas says defensively. Newt slaps him on the back, grinning.

“Are they edible?” Thomas asks curiously, leaning forward to peer into the water. He spots the thing a few feet out, and even sees a few more, now that he’s looking.

“They are,” Newt nods. “They aren’t half-bad, either. Quick, though; pretty hard to catch. They don't have a whole lot of meat, though, and they pinch pretty hard.”

“Huh,” Thomas says. His gaze falls on the huge rocks up against either side of the dam, and the steep slope on the opposite side of the river. He finds himself spacing out.

A loud splashing sound draws his attention away from the slope, and he turns to look at Newt. 

Who is no longer by his side.

“Newt?” Thomas says, looking around. A small bubble of panic rises in him. “ _Newt_?”

A second round of splashing begins, and Thomas jerks towards the sound. Newt bobs up from the water a few feet away, pushing his hair away from his face.

“Jeez, can’t go two bloody seconds without you freaking out on me, can I?”

Thomas feels his face redden in embarrassment.

“Oh, come on, Tommy, I’m just playin’,” Newt says. His pants are lying on the sand next to his shoes, and Thomas realizes he must’ve been zoned out much longer than he thought.

Newt’s hair is dark from the water, and he shakes his head like a dog, sending water droplets flying.

He pushes his hair back once more, and he grins, walking back over to where it’s shallower.

“Want me to help get the hair off your back, since you can’t get your shoulder wet?” Newt offers. Thomas shrugs, which Newt rolls his eyes at.

“You really are terrible at answering. You always shrug.”

Thomas’s shoulders raise instinctively, to shrug, and he stops himself. Newt’s body shakes with silent laughter.

“You’re a funny guy, Greenie,” Newt says, stepping behind Thomas. He cups water in his hands and brings it up to Thomas’s neck, careful to avoid the bandages, and allows it to run down Thomas’s back. He shivers involuntarily at the chill of it. The cold water seeps into the waistband of his jeans, but Thomas can’t really bring himself to care too much.

The silence is filled with the thunder of the dam and the rushing of the river, and Thomas can’t help but close his eyes, savoring the coolness of the water against his sun-soaked skin.

A cold trickle of water streams down his chest, rather than his back. A pair of wet hands settle against his skin, one on his good shoulder, and the other on his hip.

Thomas opens his eyes. Newt is close to him. So close, in fact, that Thomas has to tilt his head up (just slightly) to meet his eyes.

“Hi,” Thomas breathes.

“Hey,” Newt whispers. Thomas can feel Newt’s breath on his face. It smells like mint.

A drop of water spills down from Newt’s hair, sliding down his temple. Thomas watches it, transfixed, as it rolls down Newt’s cheek, under his jaw, and stops in the column of Newt’s throat, just below his Adam’s apple.

Thomas is overcome with the desire to lick the droplet of water away.

“Tommy?” Newt says.

“Hmm?” Thomas mumbles, eyes fixed on Newt’s throat.

“Tommy.”

Finally, Thomas manages to rip his gaze away.

“Yeah?” he rasps, lifting his eyes to Newt’s own. Newt is staring at him. His eyes are dark with something that Thomas can’t read. The air seems thick with tension.

“Can—”

A loud rumble interrupts Newt, followed quickly by a blinding white flash of lightning. Thomas hadn’t even noticed the sky getting dark.

Newt’s hands drop from his body, and they both look away from each other. Thomas glances up at the darkening storm clouds and winces. They better hurry to get dressed, because they’re about to be soaked to the skin.

And Thomas hasn’t had the best experience with rain lately.

“Shit,” Thomas says, rushing to the shore. He plops down and tugs his socks on. Newt follows him and hastily shimmies into his jeans, the action made much harder with how wet his skin is.

“We gotta hurry,” Newt says, slipping his shirt over his head.

“I know,” Thomas answers, pulling on his own shirt and slipping his shoes on. He laces them just as the first fat droplet of rain hits his cheek. “Fuck.”

The rain begins coming down for real then. Fortunately, it isn’t as bad as it had been last time. Still, Thomas leaps to his feet and yanks Newt up as well, their moment long forgotten.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he laughs as the rain beats down. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky. Newt grabs his arm.

“Tommy, _come on_!” Newt groans, pulling him towards the wooden staircase. Thomas follows, but by the time they make it back to the large camper, they’re both drenched and shivering.

Thomas shuts the door behind them, and the loud crackle of thunder and patter of the rain becomes muffled. Thomas breathes deeply, a laugh catching in his throat.

“Well, that was fun,” he says sarcastically. It seems to have dropped ten degrees outside, and Thomas trembles with the cold, goosebumps raising up on his arms.

“You don’t happen to have a towel, by chance, do you?” Newt asks. He’s being sarcastic, but it makes Thomas remember that he actually does. He has the towel he snatched from the hotel room with Aris and Teresa.

“Wait, yeah, I do, actually,” he says. He unzips his bag. “Gimme a second.”

Thomas tugs the towel from the bottom of his pack and flings it at Newt. He squawks when it slaps him in the face, and Thomas grins.

“Arse,” Newt grumbles as he yanks off his shirt and lets it plop to the floor. Thomas snorts.

The daylight seems to have been sucked right out of the sky. It’s gloomy, almost dark, but it can’t even be seven, eight o’clock yet.

“Here,” Newt says. He hands Thomas the towel. It’s damp, but Thomas uses it to dry off as well as he can anyway. He scrubs it over his hair.

“Thanks,” Thomas says. He pulls his shirt over his head and wrings it out on the floor.

“You got your bloody bandages wet,” Newt says, tone almost accusing. Thomas looks down at his shoulder. Sure enough, they’re soaked through.

“Damn,” Thomas says. He shrugs. “Well, that sucks.”

“You gotta change ‘em. Can’t be wearing soaked bandages,” Newt huffs. Thomas gives him a look.

“Um, I _can’t_ change them, Newt,” he points out. “I can’t reach them in the back.”

Newt rolls his eyes. “Well, I’ll _help_ you, you dumb shank.”

“You know, I don’t appreciate the insults,” Thomas says, trying his damnedest to sound offended.

“Sure you don’t,” Newt retorts. He drags Thomas over to the bed and makes him sit.

“You sure are bossy for someone who should be grateful that I cut their hair.”

Newt laughs at that, moving to retrieve the needed supplies from the cupboard.

“You think _I’m_ bossy? Have you _met_ Minho? Or Gally, for that matter?”

“You’re bossier,” Thomas says immediately.

“Oh, think so?” Newt asks. He sits down behind Thomas, leaning against the headboard.

“Definitely,” Thomas grins.

“Whatever you say, shank,” Newt says. “Hold still, I gotta patch you up.”

He peels the wet gauze away from Thomas’s shoulder and lets it plop to the ground in a sopping pile. He uses the damp towel to mostly dry Thomas’s shoulder, being incredibly gentle, and swathes Thomas’s shoulder in new, dry dressings. The bite still throbs, though, a deep ache that almost feels like a bruise deep beneath his skin.

“Thanks,” Thomas says, biting back a yawn. The sound of the rain drumming on the roof of the camper is soothing, and Thomas suddenly feels exhausted. He slumps backward, and his weight leans against Newt’s chest.

Newt chuckles behind him.

“You gonna crash?” he asks, sounding highly amused.

“No,” Thomas argues. “I’m not even tired, really.”

“Sure you aren’t.”

Thomas knows sarcasm when he hears it.

“I’m _not_ , you jerk,” Thomas huffs. “Too cold to be tired.” A chill ignites a shiver to course through his body, as if to prove his point.

A pair of arms snake around his waist, and Thomas realizes how close he and Newt actually are. He’s tucked neatly between Newt’s legs, and his back is plastered to Newt’s front. Newt radiates warmth, and suddenly Thomas isn’t all that cold anymore.

Newt hooks his chin over Thomas’s good shoulder. A lump forms in Thomas’s throat, and his heartbeat seems to trip over itself.

“Hey, Newt?”

“Yeah?” His breath ghosts over Thomas’s cheek.

Except Thomas has no clue what he wants to say. So he improvises.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks.

“Well, not really,” Newt admits. Thomas pauses, not expecting such an answer. He leans forward hastily and Newt chuckles.

“That wasn’t why, Tommy, it was more because the headboard was diggin’ into my buggin’ spine,” he says.

“Just lay down, then,” Thomas says.

“ _Now_ who’s the bossy one?” Newt grins. But he _does_ move to lay horizontal, propping his head up on the only pillow. He looks up at Thomas. “Well, you gonna lay down, or are ya gonna sit up all night?”

“It’s not even late enough to be going to sleep,” Thomas points out, even as he slides down to lay flat next to Newt.

“Please, like that’s stopping anyone else,” Newt snorts. “I’d bet we’re the only two even still awake.”

Thomas mumbles out something of a reply and rests his head on the mattress.

Newt scoots in close to him and pats his sternum. “Here. Works just as well as a pillow, since I took the only one.”

Thomas doesn’t protest or shoot down the offer; instead, he shifts over. He positions himself carefully, not wanting to put pressure on his bad shoulder, and he ends up with half of his body draped across Newt’s, his face pressed into Newt’s neck. They’re pressed stomach-to-stomach, Thomas’s leg wedged between Newt’s thighs, and Thomas wonders if this is a normal thing for two friends to be doing.

It’s nice, so he decides he doesn’t care.

He falls asleep to the sound of Newt’s steady breaths and the feel of his heartbeat.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything Is Bad™

Thomas wakes up with a pounding head and to the sound of muffled shouting. He’s too warm, and his entire body just _aches_.

He groans and, without opening his eyes, shoves his face further into the darkness of his pillow, willing sleep to return to him.

“Tommy, I really hate to do this to ya, but I gotta get up.”

Except pillows don’t talk.

Thomas opens his bleary eyes and finds that his face is pressed into the junction between Newt’s shoulder and neck. His bare chest is flush against Newt’s, and he feels sticky with sweat.

He’s just tensing up to move when nails scrape through his sweat-dampened hair, and Thomas relaxes back into place, eyes fluttering shut. Despite overheating as he is, sleep calls out to him.

“You can go back to sleep, shank, but you gotta let me up first.”

Thomas groans again, the sound muffled against Newt’s neck, but he opens his eyes and rolls off of the taller boy. Thomas twists to look toward the window, squinting.

“Is it even light out yet?” Thomas asks, voice raspy.

“Not yet. But I want to see what’s going on out there,” Newt says, standing up. Thomas himself is curious, but his mind is too hazed with sleep to want to get up.

“Let me know what’s going on when you come back,” Thomas mumbles, eyes slipping closed. Newt laughs quietly, and Thomas is asleep by the time the camper door opens.

* * *

The next time Thomas wakes up, he feels much worse. His hair is completely matted to his forehead with sweat, and his body feels sticky and gross. It’s as though a cloying shroud of warmth has been draped over him, suffocating in its humidity. He gasps for a decent breath and immediately struggles to kick his jeans off. He’s too hot, and clothes aren’t helping.

Thomas sits up sharply.

A stabbing pain flares up in his head, and it quickly diminishes to a dull ache pounding away behind his eyes.

Thomas hears the group talking outside, and though he cannot discern specific words, they don’t sound too happy. A quick glance at the window shows that it is just beginning to brighten outside.

He shuffles to sit on the edge of the bed. His body aches, but the center of the pain seems to be radiating from his shoulder.

 _I must have laid on it wrong_ , he thinks. Even so, it’s a different type of pain. It isn’t a surface-level ache; it feels deeper, like a denseness has settled in his bones. It feels _wrong_.

Thomas stands up, and blackness oozes into his vision at the corners. Nausea twists his stomach in knots, and he sits back down, willing his vision to clear and the sickness to fade. 

After a few moments of deep breathing, the churning in his stomach settles and his eyesight clears. He feels a bead of sweat slide down his temple, and his hands begin shaking.

He clenches his jaw, face set, and tries a second time. His vision blurs, black dots bursting before his eyes, but he stubbornly remains upright. He swallows against the tightness of his throat.

Thomas shuffles forward a few steps before the dizziness swoops in. His skin prickles and his hearing becomes muted, as though someone has shoved cotton in his ears. His heart pounds in his chest and his head throbs. He finds himself leaning heavily against the countertop, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he squeezes his eyes shut.

 _I’m gonna pass out_ , he thinks grimly as the lightheadedness overwhelms him. He hangs his head and grips the counter, feeling as though he’ll pitch sideways at any moment.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the urge to vomit lessens, and the dizziness becomes bearable. His hearing seems to come back all at once, sweeping over him in a cold chill. The voices are now right outside the RV.

“—but did they take anything important?” The voice is Newt’s.

“I don’t think so. I don’t know yet.” That’s Minho. He sounds miffed. “Is he seriously still asleep? How did all that noise _not_ wake him up?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to wake him, it’s about time he gets up anyway.” 

The door of the camper squeaks as it opens. Light pours in, which Thomas detects even behind his closed eyelids, and the stifling warmth seems to be sucked out of the room. Chills explode over his body, and the lightheadedness rushes back alarmingly fast.

“Oh _shit_ ,” Newt says. “Tommy—”

His voice cuts out, and Thomas’s knees buckle under him. Darkness consumes him.

 

He regains consciousness mid-fall. Newt manages to grab him before he hits the floor, and he supports Thomas’s dead weight in his arms. Thomas’s head lolls onto his shoulder bonelessly, like a lifeless puppet whose strings had been cut. Newt sounds absolutely frantic, and then Thomas is being dragged back to the bed and deposited there.

A hand smacks lightly and incessantly against his cheek, and Thomas forces his eyes open. He fights to focus on the figure above him, darkness creeping in at the corners of his vision.

His hearing, however, is clear as a bell.

“Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me?” The voice changes tone. “Minho, something’s wrong. Go get Clint. Right now.”

Thomas’s vision pitches and he pinches his eyes shut, groaning.

“‘m gonna pass out,” he slurs.

“You already did.” A cool hand presses against his forehead. “Jesus. You’re a bloody furnace right now.”

“I feel gross,” Thomas says, blinking his eyes open once again. He shivers violently. “I’m too hot.”

“What happened?” Clint demands, storming into the camper. The bed dips as Newt scrambles to the other side in order to get out of Clint’s way.

“I walked in and Tommy here passed out. Woulda hit the floor if I hadn’t caught him.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress, Newt,” Thomas argues, turning his head to scowl at him. His stomach disagrees with the movement, and bile rushes up his throat. He pales and closes his eyes.

“I’m gonna throw up,” he says tightly, gripping the sheets below him. 

He doesn’t throw up, but it’s a near thing.

“Did you wake up feeling sick?” Clint asks. Thomas moves to nod but decides against it.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strained. He peels his eyes open. They’re watery and he wants to rub them. “I feel achy. All over.”

Clint immediately moves his hands to the bandages on Thomas’s shoulder. “Newt, help me sit him up. Thomas, try not to puke on me.”

Again, Thomas doesn’t throw up, but it’s a near thing. It’s more dizziness than nausea this time, though, and he ends up with most of his weight slumped back against Newt.

Clint carefully peels off the clean bandages. He curses under his breath.

Thomas can take the guess.

“Infected?” he asks weakly.

“Infected,” Clint confirms. “I figured this would happen, when you popped your stitches. It was almost inevitable.”

“Well fix it,” Thomas groans. “Cuz this sucks.”

“Yeah, well, you’re officially going to be on bedrest for the next few days,” Clint says. “I’ve got meds for you to take, and I’m gonna disinfect it again right now.”

As Clint bustles to find the rubbing alcohol, Thomas twists his head to get a look at the injury. The skin around it is tight and inflamed, a red ring forming around the bite. Thomas winces at the sight of it.

Clint returns and cleans the wound with the antiseptic, which stings like hell, though the stinging is almost preferable to the encompassing ache sitting in his bones. Clint presses Thomas’s half-full water bottle into his right hand and a small pill into his left.

“Take that,” he orders. “It’s one of the stronger antibiotics we’ve got.”

Clint turns his attention towards Newt. “Alby wants me going into town with Minho and the others, so Newt, I’m putting you in charge of him. Make sure he takes another one in about eight hours. The infection should be cleared up within the next few days.”

Thomas presses the pill past his lips and forces himself to chase it down with a small swig of water.

“What about the fever?” Newt says from behind Thomas, voice thick with worry. “Got anything for that?”

Clint shakes his head. “Mixing medicines is never a good idea unless you know what you’re doing. I’m not a real doctor, so I don’t know what goes okay with what. It’s smarter to just let him ride it out. He should be fine; the stuff I gave him should help with the fever, too. Just try to get some food and water in him. Odds are, he won’t want to eat, but at least try.”

“Got it, doc,” Newt says. “You go on with Minho. I’ve got this handled. I’ll have Alby radio ya if it gets bad.”

“It shouldn’t, but yeah, definitely contact me,” Clint says.

“Clint, hurry it up, we gotta go!” Minho calls, voice muffled outside the camper.

“Bye, guys. Thomas, you stay in that bed. Newt, don’t let him get up,” Clint orders. He exits the camper, shutting the door behind him.

Thomas doesn’t say anything for a long time.

His skin is overwhelmingly sensitive, to the point where he winces when his bare legs rub against the sheets. He’s not cold, but he shivers.

A thought strikes Thomas just as Newt begins to speak.

“Are you—”

“What was going on this morning?” Thomas asks, his question overriding Newt’s. “The thing that made you get up.”

When Newt answers, he answers quietly.

“Zart, Wins, and Jeff took the car and left.”

Thomas jerks up, wanting to twist around to get a look at Newt’s face, to see if he’s joking. Newt grabs him around the waist and pulls him back toward his chest, forcing him still.

Thomas sags against him.

“You’re serious?” Thomas asks lowly.

“Yeah, I’m serious. They all wanted to find a military camp. Pretty sure they’re headed for Chicago, since it’s the closest one that’s still standing. Or maybe they wanted to look for the Right Arm; who bloody knows at this point.”

If Thomas didn’t feel so weak, he’d be infuriated. As it is, his heart sinks and his skin prickles with fear.

What if they went to WICKED? What if they told WICKED where they are? Thomas knows WICKED; he knows Ava and he knows Janson. He knows that they’d be more than willing to come find him, to drag him back. The only reason they haven’t yet is because they don’t know where Thomas is. He had hoped to keep it that way.

“What did they take with them?” he asks hastily, trying his best to push all thoughts of that wretched group from the forefront of his mind.

“So far, we’re not sure yet. They each took their own bag, which really hits us hard, as far as Jeff. He had a fourth of all of our med supplies with him,” Newt says bitterly. “They took one of the full gas cans. Probably some of the food. Last I knew, Frypan was going to check.”

“Shit,” Thomas whispers.

“Yeah,” Newt agrees with a sigh. “Wish I’da known they were thinking about leavin’. Maybe I could’ve talked them out of it.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Thomas says. “And there’s a silver lining here.”

Newt scoffs, a miserable huff of a sound that makes Thomas’s heart hurt. “And what would that be?”

“Well, we don’t have to worry as hard about food, now that we have three less mouths to feed,” he points out.

Newt presses his cheek into Thomas’s hair. “I just… I wish they hadn’t done it.”

Thomas hadn’t known the three all that well. In fact, when he first arrived, Winston and Jeff had both been uneasy with him. He doesn’t know that he ever spoke to Zart. Regardless, he knows that Newt must have been close to them, so he places his hand on Newt’s knee and squeezes to convey comfort.

Newt sighs again, his exhale shaky this time, and pulls Thomas close. He just holds him, and they sit together in utter silence.

* * *

The next week passes by agonizingly slow and with only a few eventful incidents.

The first night, Minho, Clint, Jorge, and Brenda manage to almost give everyone a heart attack when they return from their supply run, sprinting into camp with a group of eight Cranks on their tails. Thomas hadn’t even been _awake_ for it. But Newt tells him that the matter was swiftly taken care of, and the four don’t do a supply run the next day.

Alby and Newt find that Winston, Jeff, and Zart took very little food with them, but they did snag a fair bit of the other necessities. The most concerning of which is the suture supplies.

If Thomas breaks open his stitches again, or if someone gets a bad enough cut, they’re screwed.

As such, Thomas is forced to stay in bed for _longer_ , even after the infection has run its course and left his system.

On the fourth day, Newt has gone to sleeping in the tent rather than the camper, and Thomas doesn’t like the sudden change of sleeping alone. Thomas keeps the keychain that Newt picked up at the store they had searched, tucking it into his backpack alongside his journals.

He finally snaps, the boredom unbearable. He’s updated his notebook on all of the shit that has gone down in the past months, finally having the time to do it, and now he has nothing to occupy his time. He forces Clint to let him at least walk around camp, and ends up spending most of the day trying to be useful, learning how to make a snare from Jorge and boiling lake water over the fire to purify it. He even goes as far as attempting to wash the small pile of dirty laundry that has accumulated in the bed of the truck.

On day five, Thomas sits down at the picnic table with a sad-looking Chuck and demands to know the problem. Chuck whittles away at a small chunk of wood with his pocket knife while he relays his yearning for his parents, missing them, and Thomas gets his mind off of it by telling Chuck stupid stories from his past. After a few hours, Chuck does something Thomas doesn’t expect: he gives him the little wooden figurine. Thomas accepts it with a grin and gives Chuck a hearty pat on the back. Then, Chuck sees the deck of cards in Thomas’s hand and animatedly begins explaining how to play his favorite card game, Sevens, a card game Thomas has never heard of before.

Day six passes by much the same. The bite has begun to itch fiercely. When he brings it up to Clint, he says that means it’s healing and deems it a good thing.

On the morning of Thomas’s seventh day under what he deems house arrest, he wakes up and goes straight to Clint, buzzing with anticipation. The Med-jack is seated at a picnic table outside, absently shuffling the deck of cards and staring off at the shimmering water of the lake.

Thomas slides into the bench across from Clint and props his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. He says nothing.

After what must be about five minutes of silence, Clint sighs deeply and turns his head to him. Thomas is surprised to see that Clint looks much more amused than exasperated.

“Ready to get them out?” Clint asks.

“God, yes,” Thomas groans.

Clint laughs and stands up. “Stay here.”

Thomas grins and turns to watch the way the sunlight dances on the water. He looks over when someone sits beside him.

“Hey, Minho,” Thomas says.

“It’s been a few days since we’ve talked, Greenie,” Minho says.

“Yeah,” Thomas agrees. “How are the supply runs coming?”

“We’ve found some useful stuff, but most of the good stuff is hard to get to. I’m tellin’ you, the place is completely infested with Cranks, which means most of the supplies haven’t been snatched. You gotta be sneaky, and using a gun is basically suicide.”

Minho shakes his head. “But that’s not why I’m here to talk to you.”

Thomas frowns.

“You have a reason?” he asks. Minho leans forward in his seat, the look in his eyes serious enough to make Thomas worry.

“I’ve seen the way you and Newt have been talking,” he says.

“What—”

Minho raises a hand in a silencing gesture. “Listen to me, shank, don’t interrupt. I’ve seen how you’ve been talking. I’m not mad or anything. In fact, I think it’s good for him to get his mind off the past few months.”

His tone darkens, and he locks his eyes on Thomas like he’s a target.

“But listen, Thomas, and listen carefully. I’m being dead serious when I say this: if you hurt him, you’ll _wish_ you could turn into a Crank, because even that death will be quicker and less painful than the one I’d give you. You _will_ suffer, don’t doubt that for a second. Good that?” Minho says. His voice is cold, and his words prompt icy chills down Thomas’s spine.

“Good that,” Thomas whispers, shrinking under Minho’s hostile gaze.

Finally, Minho relents, leaning back and his expression softening. He pats Thomas on the back. “I’ve seen the way you look at him; I don’t think I have anything to worry about. You would probably dive in front of a moving train if it meant saving his life, seeing how you’ve risked your life for all of us already.”

Minho grins, wide and beaming, and stands.

“Oh hey, Clint,” he says, and he walks off. Thomas watches him go, dazed and reeling. Clint sits down in Minho’s vacant spot. He raises an eyebrow at Thomas.

“You good?” he asks. He follows Thomas’s gaze. “Geez, what did he say to you?”

“I…have no idea,” Thomas answers truthfully, trying to process Minho’s words. More than anything, they confuse him.

 _‘Hurt him’? Why would I ever hurt Newt?_ Thomas thinks, baffled. 

“Well, you can figure it out later. Right now, I need you to take your shirt off and hold still.”

The process of removing the stitches is easy and painless. It takes maybe two minutes.

Clint examines the bite carefully, humming under his breath. Thomas cranes his head to look.

The bite has healed shut. Half of the injury is already scarred over, whereas part of it is still scabbing and healing. It looks ugly, and it itches. But all signs of infection and inflammation are gone, and that in itself has Thomas over the moon.

“Well,” Clint begins slowly, “it’s healing. Not as fast as I’d like, but it is. You’re probably okay to sleep in the tent now; still not in any shape to get wet, though. I think…I’d like to keep you here another few days until it scabs over a little more.”

Thomas whines as Clint rewraps the bandages.

“ _Please_ , Clint, I _can not_ stay in this camp for another few days. I’m going crazy here. I’ll be careful, I swear. I won’t even go on a full run; I’ll just do a half-day,” Thomas bargains. 

Clint gives it some thought. He rubs his eyes and sighs deeply. He gives Thomas a look. “You’re killin’ me here, kid.”

 _Kid?_ Thomas thinks, mildly offended.

“But,” Clint continues, “I concede, I yield, I give up. You can go with Minho and Brenda tomorrow, _but_ you have to be with one of them at all times, bandages stay on, and you be back here by noon. No backpack; you let them do the heavy lifting.”

“Okay,” Thomas rushes out. He smiles widely. “Thanks, man. For patching me up, I mean. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s kinda my job here, in case you hadn't noticed,” Clint snorts.

“Yeah, but you do it well,” Thomas says. He slides off of the bench and claps the Med-jack on the shoulder. “See you.”

“Hey, you be careful out there,” Clint warns, then turns back to the table. He returns to shuffling the cards.

Thomas doesn’t answer but half-skips to the large camper to move his stuff into the blue tent. He does so with a huge smile on his face.

“What’s got you so happy?”

The voice stops Thomas short, and the smile drops from his face. He has only caught glimpses of Gally the past few days, and he certainly hasn’t spoken to him.

Thomas turns to face him. Gally doesn’t look nearly as angry or accusatory as his tone suggested. In fact, he looks genuinely curious.

It catches Thomas off guard.

“I’m, uh…I got my stitches out,” Thomas says cautiously. “Clint said I can go on a run tomorrow.”

“That’s…good,” Gally says. Thomas shifts awkwardly.

“Yep.”

Gally scratches at his neck. He sighs. “Look, shank— Thomas. I know you. Minho isn’t the only one who spent time with WICKED. I know that once they started testing on innocent people, you didn’t lift a damn finger to help them. I lost friends in there, _good_ friends. So forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced you’re on our side.”

The thing is, Thomas gets it. “I don’t have to prove myself to you, Gally.”

“No, you don’t,” Gally agrees. “But you should know that I don’t trust you. Not even a little bit.”

“That’s fine,” Thomas says. “For the record, I don’t trust you, either.”

An almost-smile crosses Gally’s face.

“Good that,” Gally says, and he turns and walks off. Before Thomas can even begin to contemplate the odd encounter, Chuck is jogging over, a look of pure worry on his face.

“You two weren’t fighting, were you?” Chuck asks.

“No. At least, I don’t think so,” Thomas answers. Chuck scrunches up his nose in confusion.

“That makes no sense.”

Thomas just shrugs. It _doesn’t_ make sense, but it is what it is.

“Alby’s worried,” Chuck says, switching subjects. Thomas frowns.

“What are you talking about?”

“I overheard him talking with Jorge and Minho. He doesn’t think we can stay here forever. He thinks maybe a few months, enough time to scavenge the town, but after that, he said we’ll probably leave.”

“What’s wrong with staying here?” Thomas asks, bewildered.

“Alby said we’re just too close to Cranks. Jorge keeps suggesting the Right Arm, but Minho’s against it. He said we should head somewhere far away from WICKED and the Right Arm.”

Thomas remembers a particular conversation he’d had with Minho over the topic. Minho had said that he wanted to just stay away from the camps, carve out his own corner of the world.

“So what’s going to happen?” Thomas asks. The group might not realize it like Thomas just has, but when people talk, Chuck _listens_.

“Dunno,” Chuck says, kicking a pebble into a small patch of grass. “Minho wasn’t happy at all with the Right Arm idea. If Alby and Jorge decide we’re going, Minho won’t. And I know there’s others that won’t, either.”

“The group will end up splitting,” Thomas realizes. Chuck nods, smiling sadly. Thomas chews on his lip. He nudges Chuck’s shoulder. “So, what are you going with? Right Arm or…?”

Chuck hesitates. “I’ve heard Minho talk about the Right Arm. I know it would probably be easier, and that they have food and more weapons and stuff, but…but I think I’m with Minho. I don’t want to be a soldier in this war, either.”

Thomas feels a bolt of unexpected pride strike him. He grins at Chuck.

“Well said, brother. I agree with ya,” Thomas says, ruffling the boy’s curly hair. “What do you say we go play a card game with Clint? We can play Sevens.”

Chuck beams at the suggestion.

* * *

The next day passes smoothly. Thomas returns from the supply run with Minho at around midday, just as he said he would. There are no complications or issues at all.

It takes another week and a half for the wound on Thomas’s shoulder to be healed entirely. The scar is so fresh that it’s still pink, but he no longer has to worry about reopening the injury, nor does he have to wear bandages anymore.

The pressure from the strap of his backpack doesn’t even hurt, not unless he’s got his pack on for a long amount of time.

It’s progress.

“Thomas, I swear to God. You sleep like the dead. _Get up_.”

“I’m not asleep,” Thomas huffs, forcing his tired eyes open. As a matter of fact, Minho couldn’t be more wrong. Thomas is an incredibly light sleeper. He’s been woken up several times within the past week just from Newt shifting in his sleep beside him.

Thomas props himself up on an elbow and squints, raising a hand to block the light from his eyes. Minho’s got his flashlight pointed at him.

“Well get a move on, we gotta go. I talked to Alby, he’s coming with us today.”

Thomas furrows his brow and sits up. “Why?”

“That’s another backpack; more stuff to bring back,” Minho says, punctuating his sentence with a roll of his eyes. “Duh.”

“Why we goin’ so early?” Thomas asks in a voice close to a whisper. A quick glance shows that Newt is still asleep, curled beneath a thin, ratty blanket.

“Sneaking around Cranks takes time if you don’t want caught, you know that,” Minho points out. “The earlier we go, the more stuff we can potentially bring back. And we _need_ food, man.”

Thomas nods. Over the past few weeks, they’ve basically exhausted their resources as far as food is concerned. Despite Frypan implementing strict portions and rationing, the Runners just haven’t been bringing enough food back to make up the difference.

Clint and Chuck, both with nothing better to do, have been spending everyday in the woods to gather blueberries. Still, it just isn’t enough.

Thomas hasn’t eaten since yesterday at breakfast. He’d given his dinner ration (a measly packet of trail mix) to Chuck, who’d skipped on breakfast to go out and gather blueberries and mint from the forest.

They would slowly starve to death at this rate.

“Okay,” Thomas says, standing. He stretches his arms above his head. There’s a small twinge in his shoulder, but it’s barely there. He smiles as he grabs his backpack and pulls it on. Minho leaves, the crunching of his footsteps in the dirt receding.

Thomas retrieves his own flashlight and squeezes out the entrance of the tent. He zips it shut behind him and jogs over to join Minho by the back hatch of the truck. Alby walks over a few minutes later, Brenda and Jorge in tow.

The sound of crickets chirping almost makes it feel like they’re really camping.

“Usual groups?” Minho asks. “Jorge, Brenda, you together, and Alby, you’ll be with me and Tomboy.”

Minho had made the rule absolutely clear on Thomas’s first run: under _no_ circumstances is someone to be alone on a run. It’s a safety thing. Thomas thinks it’s smart.

“Sure, sounds good, _muchacho_ ,” Jorge agrees. Alby nods and Brenda gives them each a pointed look.

“I know we’re kind of desperate to find food, but don’t forget to be careful. We all regroup at the gas station around mid-afternoon, like normal,” she says. Minho says something of an agreement and looks at each of them, eyes settling on Thomas last.

“You shanks ready? Then let’s go.”

They walk into town. Thomas, on his first supply run, had asked why they don’t drive, as it’s much quicker, and Minho had looked at him like he was actually insane.

 _“Do you know how many Cranks that noise would attract?”_ Minho had said, and Thomas had conceded.

“How long is this walk?” Alby asks, puffing out a breath of air. Thomas wipes the sweat from his forehead, beginning to tire himself. It’s grossly muggy and humid this morning, even though the sun hasn’t risen yet. Thomas is not looking forward to sweating through yet _another_ shirt.

“Five, six miles in all?” Minho suggests. He shrugs, the beam of his flashlight bobbing with the movement. “I’m not sure. Usually takes like an hour to walk. Could be worse.”

Their quick pace has them on the outskirts of the town in forty-five minutes instead. The closest building to them, the abandoned gas station that serves as their meeting place, comes into view, and Thomas huffs a sigh of relief, the moisture in the air making it hard to get a good breath. The sun is just beginning to rise.

“Okay,” Minho begins in a whisper, leaning against a rusty Toyota, “game plan: Brenda, Jorge, you two try for the little food market we saw yesterday. Thomas, me, you, and Alby are gonna try getting into the Dollar General a few miles down the road. Good that?”

“Good that,” Thomas agrees, shifting his bag on his shoulders. He has already put his flashlight away, tucked in his pack alongside two smashed granola bars and his canteen. Each of their backpacks have some meager bit of food. Just in case.

“See you _chicos_ in a bit,” Jorge says, looking either way for Cranks before taking off in a quick jog, Brenda hot on his heels.

“Come on,” Minho says, nodding towards the road. He sprints off, ducking behind the nearest parked car and weaving his way down the road, using the vehicles as cover to remain unseen. Alby chases after him. Thomas pulls the hatchet Minho gave him from his bag, tucks his Glock into his waistband, and follows.

They come across the Cranks almost immediately. They’re congregated outside the old KFC, stumbling aimlessly. One is wailing for no apparent reason. Others let out the occasional scream.

Thomas doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how they look. Sometimes, they’re missing body parts. Usually their fingers, ears, noses… Thomas has seen footage Cranks do it to themselves in the process of turning, before even passing the Gone. Back at WICKED, they had shown him footage of Cranks chewing their own fingers off, biting into themselves, as if they’re making one last effort not to hurt anyone.

It’s disgusting as well as sad.

The thick, black veins and patches of missing hair are always terrifying to see, too, but Thomas thinks the worst part is the eyes. The eyes that could _almost_ be normal, if they didn’t become fogged over with madness and rage as soon as they hear or spot human activity.

Sneaking by them is as challenging as it always is. It’s a process of sitting patiently and sprinting in bursts to cover. Thomas has to tighten his grip on his hatchet to keep from raising his hand to chew his nails, a nervous habit he’s picked up from Chuck.

Despite it only being a few miles from the gas station, it takes an hour and a half to reach Dollar General, and by then, the sun has risen. They duck behind a vehicle in the parking lot.

“Gotta be careful about this,” Minho whispers, knuckles turning white from his tight grip on the dagger in his left hand. He has Ben’s old crowbar in his dominant hand. “There’s bound to be Cranks in there. We gotta be quiet.”

“Are we seriously just going to waltz right in the front?” Thomas hisses. The automatic doors are propped wide open. Thomas peers inside, but there’s a certain lack of Infected that puts him on edge.

“Do you see any other ways in, shank?” Minho snaps right back. Thomas purses his lips and shakes his head. Minho gives him a half-amused, half-annoyed look and scoffs.

“I’m going first,” Minho says. “Alby, you next. Thomas, you’re taking up the rear.”

“Let’s just go already,” Alby whispers, switching his knife back and forth between his hands. Sweat beads on his forehead.

Minho peeks over the hood of the car. After a few moments, he gives a jerky nod and slips out from behind the car, slinking towards the general store.

“Alby, go!” Thomas says urgently, pushing at his shoulder. Alby skids after Minho. Thomas cringes as Alby stumbles over his feet, but he steadies himself before falling.

Thomas follows them and crouches next to Alby beside the entrance. Minho is leaning forward, looking inside. His body is visibly tense, muscles coiled like a tightly-wound spring.

Suddenly, Minho darts forward, kicking up a small spray of gravel and broken glass as he scrambles into the store. Alby inhales sharply and follows Minho. After a minute, Thomas does as well, the soles of his shoes sliding on bits of glass.

Once inside the store, his head jerks around, but Alby and Minho are nowhere in sight. Thomas straightens up, panic stabbing him right between the ribs. His eyes widen and he stands dumbly, frozen in place.

Before he can think to move, a Crank staggers into the open from between two shelves, growling rasps escaping its mouth. Thomas stares at the thing, dread making the hair stand up on his arms and his heart hammer in his chest.

He’s never seen one in this bad of shape.

It’s lower jaw and tongue are missing entirely, a gaping hole in its face. Its tattered clothes are caked in black slime and dried blood. An ear has been torn off, both eyes have been ripped out, and one of its arms is hanging at a disgusting angle.

The Crank growls again and lurches forward. Thomas’s breath hitches, catching in his throat, and the Crank’s head snaps toward him. It stumbles a few steps in his direction, a squelching gurgle leaving its throat. 

Thomas holds his breath, not daring to move even the slightest muscle. 

Within a few seconds, the Crank’s head begins darting around wildly, snarling furiously. The snarls cut off all at once, and Thomas has no time to prepare before a disgusting mix of flesh and black sludge gushes from the Crank’s mouth.

Thomas pales.

Something latches onto his arm, a vice grip around his bicep, and yanks him so hard he loses his footing. Thomas’s mouth opens to yell, but a hand slams down over his lips before he can make a sound.

“Thomas, shut up,” Minho huffs, so quiet that Thomas barley hears him. Relief floods his body and nods. Minho’s hand leaves his mouth and the grip on his arm vanishes. Thomas turns around to see Minho and Alby staring at him.

“Are you _insane_?” Alby says in a fierce whisper.

Minho gives Alby a murderous look and presses a finger to his lips. Alby takes the hint and shuts his mouth. Minho gestures to the aisle they’re in. It’s the candy aisle.

The shelves have barely been touched. Thomas doesn’t hesitate in swinging the bag off his shoulders, yanking the zipper open, and stuffing whatever he can reach inside as quietly as he can, keeping an ear out for the Crank. Alby and Minho follow suit on either side of him, and together, they ransack the shelf.

 _“We need real food,”_ Alby mouths slowly. Minho nods and pads down the aisle, peeking around the corner. He gestures for Thomas and Alby to follow.

These shelves are filled with chips. Thomas snags a few canisters of Pringles and nothing more. He wants to still have room in his bag for other things, if they find any.

 _“Next one,”_ Minho says silently, repeating the process. This aisle is canned foods. Thomas loads up his bag with canned fruits and peanut butter, leaving Minho or Alby to grab the Spam or canned tuna. Thomas has never been a fan of either.

They creep their way through the store, taking down two Cranks in the process, though neither are the jawless monstrosity Thomas had seen before.

They stumble upon an aisle of juice and cases of Gatorade and water bottles, and Thomas crams as much as he can into his tightly-packed bag.

Any batteries and most medicines have been taken from the store already, but Thomas manages to find a few bottles of aspirin and a cheap thermometer. 

“We gotta go,” Minho says. “Can’t get anymore right now.”

Thomas agrees. His bag is heavy against his back, heavier than he’s ever had it, loaded down with food.

“Let’s get out of here, then,” Alby mutters.

None of them are prepared for the sound of gunfire outside. Thomas squeaks and Minho flinches. They all exchange alarmed looks.

Two gunshots. Three. Four.

A Crank sprints by them, not sparing them a glance as it races out of the store. The jawless Crank screeches and staggers outside as well.

“We need to go. _Right now_ ,” Minho says. He’s panicking.

Thomas understands why. The gunshots had been close. Very close. Any Cranks that heard them would come running, and Thomas, Minho, and Alby would be trapped in the store.

“Go. Go, go, go!” Minho exclaims, no longer bothering to keep his voice down as he shoves Thomas and grabs Alby by the arm. Thomas darts out of the store just as another round of gunfire breaks out. Thomas looks up the street, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun. The shots are coming from a building a few blocks down, but it’s impossible to tell who’s doing the shooting.

“That could be Jorge and Brenda!” Thomas yelps. Minho steps in front of him right before he can take off in that direction.

“We gotta leave them, then, Thomas!” Minho snaps. “If we go after them, we’ll die too!”

Thomas hates that he’s right.

“Shit,” Alby says. Thomas turns him and follows his wide-eyed gaze down the road.

Cranks. _Lots_ of Cranks. Pouring out of shops and stores and rundown buildings into the street, some staggering and some sprinting toward the ruckus, right toward them. Thomas’s heart leaps into his throat.

“We gotta go!” Thomas moans. Minho, for once, is the one frozen in place. Thomas grabs him by the forearm and yanks him in the opposite direction of the street. They have to get out of plain sight.

“Minho!” Thomas snaps. Minho breaks out of his daze in an instant. He rips his arm free from Thomas’s graps. He looks at Thomas, then Alby, and he does the unthinkable.

He runs.

Thomas doesn’t have the time to even _think_ about moving before Minho vanishes from sight, around the corner of the building beside them, leaving Thomas and Alby behind. Betrayal burns in Thomas’s heart, a hauntingly familiar sensation that reminds him of Teresa, but he refuses to let it overcome him.

“Alby, come on!” Thomas shouts, this time grabbing Alby’s arm and pulling him in the same direction Minho ran. Alby shows no signs of resistance, so Thomas releases his hold on him.

They round the corner of the building, but Minho is nowhere to be seen.

“What do we do?” Alby whispers, voice filled with terror. The gunfire begins again, this time with less space in between each shot. It sounds like the shooter is getting frantic.

“Hide, we hide,” Thomas says quickly.

The sudden shrieking of a Crank makes Thomas’s heart skip a beat. He whirls around to see a group of six or seven charging towards them.

“Scratch that, we _run_!”

In the process of running and attempting to evade their pursuers, they pick up a few more Cranks in the pursuit, and soon Thomas and Alby have a small mob chasing after them. 

The gunshots are sporadic at this point. Thomas has no idea what the shooter is _doing_ , besides maybe signing their own death certificate.

“Look, there, there!” Alby says, heaving for breath as he points to a building up ahead. It’s the KFC.

“Okay, go!” Thomas shouts, shifting to run directly toward the restaurant. Alby beats him there, ripping open the door and darting inside. Thomas follows suit. They leap over the counter and enter the back of the restaurant. It becomes dimmer the further back they go, no lights to make everything visible. Alby skids to a halt in front of him.

The stench of rotten, spoiled food is disgusting and overwhelming, but he ignores it in favor of tapping Alby on the shoulder.

“What are we doing?” Thomas asks harshly, still attempting to catch his breath. Alby’s eyes dart around.

“Cranks will get in any minute,” Alby whispers. His eyes land on the emergency exit door a few feet away, but Thomas shakes his head.

“No, there will be more back there, then we’ve got an even larger crowd after us. We have to hide, wait them out.”

“And where do you suggest we do that?” Alby says, voice pitching high with distress. Thomas looks around, and his eyes finally settle on a second door.

“There,” Thomas says, pointing to the door.

A sudden shattering of glass from the front of the restaurant gets his attention and spurs him onward.

“There, now!” Thomas says, shoving Alby toward the door. Alby yanks it open, grunting with the effort, and slips inside. Thomas presses in after him and pulls the door shut. It’s incredibly heavy, and it latches with a dull thud.

The room plunges into near darkness, the only light filtering through the small window in the door, and even that light is dim.

The room positively _reeks_ , smelling of rotting meat and spoiled dairy, and Thomas comes to the realization that they shut themselves in an industrial, walk-in freezer. Thomas severely hopes there isn’t a body in here.

At least it isn’t cold.

“We’re shucked, man. Completely _shucked_ ,” Alby groans.

“Shhh!” Thomas hisses. He presses his ear against the door, just below the window. Nothing. Not a single sound comes through the thick door.

A shadow passing in front of the window darkens the room momentarily. Thomas peeks through the filthy window. The Cranks have gotten inside. A few have even made it to the back already, stumbling around and tripping over objects on the floor.

“Shit,” Thomas whispers.

“We’re gonna die in here,” Alby says, voice shaking. He sounds like he’s crying.

Thomas takes his bag off, turns around, and presses his back up against the door, sliding down to sit.

Maybe Alby’s right. Maybe they _are_ going to die.

* * *

Any concept of time vanishes inside the freezer. The small amount of light coming through the window _does_ disappear eventually, after what seems like years, and Thomas wonders if night has fallen, or if it’s a show cast by a Crank. The darkness and utter silence in the room makes him feel claustrophobic to the point where he feels himself beginning to hyperventilate.

Alby hasn’t spoken in hours now.

Thomas isn’t tired, but he forces himself to sleep.

When he wakes up, the tiny bit of light has returned, and Thomas’s stomach flips uneasily when he realizes it could be a new day entirely.

He stands, joints cracking, and peers out the grimy window. There’s no sign of Cranks. He decides to take a risk, unable to bear the silence and darkness any longer.

He cracks open the door, wincing at the scraping sound, and looks out. Though he can’t _see_ any Cranks, he sure can hear them. They’re definitely still inside with them. But right now, the coast is clear, and Thomas knows it could be their only chance.

“Alby,” Thomas whispers, shouldering his backpack. He has no clue where Alby is. It’s too dark to see. “ _Alby_.”

“What?” Alby whispers back, sounding closer than Thomas had anticipated.

“Get up. We have to go right now, or we might not get a chance again.”

Silence. Then, a few quiet grunts, and Alby is suddenly next to him, close enough for Thomas to see the look of determination creasing his face.

“Come on, then.”

Thomas nods and pushes the freezer door open just a bit further, gritting his teeth as the door squeaks on its hinges, and he steps into the kitchen area. Alby slides out after him, and Thomas points at the emergency door Alby had wanted to use previously.

Alby nods in understanding.

Thomas’s hand wraps around the door handle and he braces himself. He pushes the door open, eyes immediately assaulted by the bright, blinding daylight.

Pain explodes in his head, and it’s like his brain is being fried. Alby lets out a sharp cry from behind him, presumably from the light burning his own eyes, and Thomas squints through his watering, itchy eyes. He steps out of the doorway to let Alby outside into the parking lot. The door falls shut with a quiet click.

By the time Thomas can look around without squinting, he realizes that Alby isn’t outside with him. Thomas jerks toward the door and grabs the handle, twisting it. It's locked.

“Alby, get out here,” Thomas says, voice just above a whisper.

His answer comes in the form of gunshots. From inside the building.

Thomas cries out in shock, staggering backward.

“No,” he croaks. “No, _God_ , no.”

Shrieks and roars of fury. Cranks.

Thomas’s head twists to look to his right. Sure enough, a group of eight or nine are bolting toward the restaurant.

“I’m sorry, Alby,” Thomas says. He runs.

 

Minho’s process of hiding behind vehicles then sprinting when there’s an opening is a lost cause. Thomas just sprints as fast as he can, lungs burning and legs feeling like jelly. His backpack feels like it’s filled with bricks, thumping against his back and weighing him down. He prays that his legs won’t collapse under him.

He literally skids to a halt at the gas station, knees giving out when he stops. He drags himself behind the Toyota and collapses onto his stomach, wheezing and shaking and crying.

He lies there even after he can breathe again. The sun beats down against him, searing into his exposed arms and the back of his neck. Bits of gravel dig into his cheek and temple.

But the Cranks? There’s no sign of them.

Thomas is still shaking when he forces himself to his feet. He looks over the hood of the car.

The gunshots haven’t stopped since Thomas started running. Any Cranks in the immediate area (which is a _lot_ of Cranks) have swarmed around the KFC. Thomas’s heart sinks.

If Alby wasn’t dead before, he sure is now.

Thomas shouldn’t have ran. He should have…he should have…

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry.”

He shakes his head sharply, the movement so jerky that it cracks his neck. He has to get back. Back to the group. He has to find out if Minho made it out alive. And Brenda and Jorge.

Thomas swallows against the tackiness in his throat and starts walking.

It’s less walking and more staggering, actually. His legs are shaky and weak and buckle under his weight multiple times. He thinks maybe the weakness is because he hasn’t eaten in so long.

His shoulder throbs from the weight of the backpack.

He stumbles into camp after two hours of walking that should have only been an hour. He damn near keels over when he sees Minho, Newt, Gally, Brenda, and Jorge talking together in a tight circle.

“Hey,” he manages, voice raw and rasping. Christ, he sounds like he’s _dying_.

He trips over a branch, of all things, and his legs finally, _finally_ give out. He crashes to the ground, though the grass absorbs most of the impact.

“Thomas!” Minho yells, and within seconds he has a crowd gathered around him. The backpack is wrenched away from his arms. People are talking over each other, each voice sounding more frantic than the last, and Thomas only catches bits and pieces.

“—where is—”

“—the hell happened—”

“Oh, my God—”

“—some water for him—”

“— _stinks_ , holy crap—”

“—Alby, _where’s Alby_?”

Thomas is still trembling when a pair of hands maneuver him into a sitting position on the ground.

“What happened out there?” Gally explodes, sounding furious and distressed. “Someone give me some _shucking answers_!”

His demand is ignored.

“Tommy? Hey, you good, mate?” Newt asks, crouched on the ground in front of Thomas, and Thomas shakes his head. Newt bites his lip. He turns his head away from Thomas. “Someone go get some water!”

“Already done, here,” Minho says in a rush. Newt accepts the water bottle and presses it into Thomas’s violently shaking hand. Thomas shakes his head and gives it back.

“Just,” Thomas begins, “just…give me a minute.”

He closes his eyes and breathes. The silence now isn’t like the absolute, crushing silence that reigned in the freezer. Here, there’s the sound of birds chirping and the roar of the dam in the distance and indistinct mumbling from around the group.

“Okay,” Thomas finally says, voice stronger now. He accepts the water bottle and takes slow, measured sips. The water isn’t cold by any means, but it’s still heaven against his dry throat.

“Okay,” Thomas repeats. He screws the cap back on the water bottle, now half-empty, and sets it aside. His hands are still faintly shaking.

“What happened out there?” Newt says, voice much softer than when Gally had said it.

Thomas’s throat tightens involuntarily.

“Cranks. There were gunshots, so we ran. Minho got separated from me and Alby,” he lies, “and we hid in a fast food place, in the freezer in the back. It wasn’t safe to leave until it _was_ safe to leave, and we were gonna go through the door in the back, but when I turned around, Alby wasn’t there.”

Thomas clears his throat, stalling for time. “I, uh… the door locked. I couldn’t get back inside, where Alby was. I think a Crank or something might have grabbed him. Then there were gunshots, from inside, and the Cranks came running, and I couldn’t stay, I-I had to run, I _had_ to—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Minho says, voice gentle in a way Thomas hasn’t heard it sound before. It fills him with rage.

Minho had _abandoned_ them. He had left them for dead.

“Shut up, Minho,” Thomas snaps, a bitter edge to his tone. Minho’s mouth snaps shut audibly. Thomas can’t bear to look at him.

“That means— _fuck_!” Gally yells. The suddenness of the shout makes Thomas jolt. His head shoots up.

“Fuck,” Gally says again, sounding near tears this time.

“What?” Thomas asks, confused.

Everyone falls silent at once, figures going hunched and defeated. Something is wrong.

Something is _wrong_.

Thomas realizes it with the blood draining from his face.

“Where’s Chuck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment on what you THINK is gonna happen. I'm curious what's going through your minds right now.
> 
> I don't actually know if fast food restaurants have walk-in freezers in the back, but I took the idea and ran with it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a filler chapter, but Newtmas!

No one answers the question. At least, not immediately. Everyone goes tense and silent, and Thomas doesn’t like it one bit.

Dread pools in his stomach and he shakes his head in disbelief.

“No…not Chuck,” he chokes. “Not  _Chuck_.”

How did everything go so wrong so quickly?

His eyes dart around the group. Newt meets his eyes briefly and looks down at the ground.

“What happened?” Thomas asks, voice hollow and resigned, the dread dissolving into a blank numbness.

“We think he left to go look for you and Alby.”

It’s Brenda who says it. She continues. “We woke up and he was just gone. We searched everywhere, combed the woods, but…nothing.”

“So he could still be alive?” Thomas says, trying to fight the rising tide of hope. No one replies.

“Jesus fucking Christ, I can’t do this anymore,” Gally snaps, the quaver in his voice negating the anger. He turns and stomps away, a defeated hunch to his shoulders.

“Can I take a look at what you got?” Frypan asks. He gestures to the bag, and Thomas nods. Fry attempts a smile, takes the backpack, and walks off to the small camper. Minho gives Thomas a long look, eyes burning into Thomas’s skin. Thomas just hangs his head to stare at the ground. Minho sighs, audibly, and his feet crunch in the dirt as he follows after Frypan.

“You hurt at all?”

Thomas looks up at Clint. He’s never heard such a defeated tone from him before.

 _Hurt emotionally or physically?_ Thomas thinks miserably.

“I, uh…no. Just tired. And hungry,” Thomas says.

“Eat. Drink something. Get some rest,” Clint nods. He walks away, too, leaving Thomas sitting in the dirt with Newt, Brenda, and Jorge. The wooden figure that Chuck had given him is suddenly heavy in Thomas’s pocket. He closes his eyes, cradling his head in his hands.

“Jorge, you good to take the reigns for a bit?” Newt says, in a voice not meant for Thomas. Jorge mutters something of an answer, too quiet for Thomas to hear. His own thoughts drown out anything else, and he feels a darkness settling over him just as a gentle hand settles on his scarred shoulder. He startles, jumpy from all of the activity, and jerks away from the touch.

“Come on, Tommy, let’s get some food in ya.”

Thomas drops his hands from his face. He feels nothing and everything all at once. He gives an empty nod and stands up.

Newt shepherds him to the blue tent, their tent. He nudges him inside and gestures for him to sit. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He disappears from sight, leaving the tent flap wide open.

Thomas takes the moment of privacy to assess himself. Physically, he’s drained and so hungry he feels sick. But he’s uninjured.

Mentally, it’s a whole different story.

In Thomas’s mind, Chuck had always been the beacon of innocence, the one real connection to life before the Outbreak that Thomas had. And to have that stolen from him, _ripped_ away so _brutally_ …

 _And it’s_ my _fault_ , Thomas realizes with sinking certainty. Gally knows it, too. _If I had just listened to Alby and we kept running. If we_ just _kept running, then maybe Alby and Chuck would still be alive. It’s my fault, this is all—_

“You stop that _right_ now, before I have to slap some sense into you.”

Thomas blinks at Brenda in surprise as she squeezes into the small tent. She sits down cross-legged and opens up the book in her hands, removing the bookmark and continuing from where she left off. She begins reading, throwing Thomas off. It takes two fluttering turns of pages before Thomas can even compose a question.

“What?” Thomas says.

“Thinking. Stop it,” Brenda says. “You don’t want to think about this until you have a clear head about it, or else you’re gonna overthink things, which never leads anywhere good. Trust me, I know.”

“It’s my fault,” Thomas says dully. Brenda looks up from the page and points her bookmark at him, fire in her eyes.

“ _That’s_ what I’m talking about,” she snaps. “Don’t be stupid; of course it isn’t your fault. Chuck made the decision to leave himself. That was his choice.”

“I could’ve saved Alby,” Thomas whispers. Brenda sighs, and her gaze softens. She places the marker in her book and sets it aside.

“Look,” she begins, “I’ll be honest here, I still don’t really get what happened. You said maybe a Crank got a hold of him. But to me, it sounds like you don’t really know what happened, either. So, _don’t_ think about it. Just let it be for now, and tomorrow it’ll make more sense.”

“We’ve lost so many people since I showed up,” Thomas says. “Maybe it would be better if—”

“Thomas,” Brenda interrupts sharply, “don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence, because I can _guarantee_ you that if you leave, everything will fall apart here. I promise you that. If you leave, Minho will never forgive you for what it does to N—”

“I don’t care whether Minho will forgive me,” Thomas snaps, a wave of anger crashing over him. Anger. That’s good. That’s better than numbness. “When it was me, him, and Alby, you know what he did? He _ran_. He left me and Alby for _dead_. _I’m_ having a hard time forgiving _him_.”

Brenda rubs her eyes. “I know what he did. He told us. But you can’t be mad at him.”

“Like hell I can’t,” Thomas snarls. Brenda raises a hand to silence him.

“Okay, you _can_ be mad at him,” she concedes, “but at least look at where he’s coming from. He panicked, he took off. When he got back, he was _crushed_ that you and Alby weren’t here. You didn’t see him, Thomas, he almost lost it. He feels terrible about it.”

Thomas bites the inside of his cheek but says nothing.

Newt returns at that moment. Brenda locks eyes with Thomas, almost pleading. Thomas can’t stand it. He shifts his gaze to his lap.

“Just…think about what I said,” Brenda sighs. The tent rustles, and a foot nudges Thomas’s knee.

“Got you some food,” Newt says. He settles down beside Thomas, long legs stretching out in front of him. He sits so close that their thighs press together. Thomas will take the small inkling of comfort where he can get it.

They eat together in silence, splitting a can of peaches, and the tension slowly leaves Thomas’s rigid shoulders. Newt doesn’t prompt any sort of conversation, and Thomas is absurdly grateful.

Their elbows knock together when Thomas reaches up to rub his bite wound. A frown immediately creases Newt’s forehead.

“You told Clint you didn’t get hurt,” Newt says, tone almost accusing.

“I didn’t,” Thomas says. He drops his hand into his lap. “I just—it’s kind of sore from lugging around the backpack, but it’s fine, I’m fine.”

Newt looks to be on the verge of saying something, but he just chews on his bottom lip and shakes his head. His gaze settles on the corner of the tent, and Thomas watches as he struggles to find the right words.

“Thomas,” Newt begins slowly, “you…you don’t have to be strong all the time. You know that, right?”

The numbness comes creeping back, pressing on his chest and making it hard to breathe.

“I know,” he answers. The silence returns and this time, it goes uninterrupted.

* * *

Thomas evades Minho for three days. In those three days, he manages to sort out quite a few things in his mind, but the more answers he comes across, the more questions he is left with.

Such as: who was firing the gun when he, Minho, and Alby were raiding the general store? Thomas has spoken with both Jorge and Brenda. They’d both heard the gunshots and assumed it had been _them_. So really, no one knows who it was. The possibilities are just about endless.

And how did Thomas never cross paths with Chuck on the way back? Had Chuck really already made it to the town by that point?

Something else has been gnawing at him as well, one that he only began thinking about the night before. How realistic even _is_ it that a Crank managed to grab Alby? Surely the Crank would’ve been making some sort of noise to alert them of its presence. Cranks aren’t capable of stealth; they lack the mental capacity.

Which invokes another question: if a Crank didn’t get ahold of Alby, what ( _or who_ ) did?

And did Alby even _have_ a gun on him at the time? Though the details are beginning to blur, Thomas doesn’t think he did. 

 _He’d had a knife, right?_ Thomas ponders. _Had he even brought a gun with him in the first place? If he didn’t, who started shooting the second time?_

Something doesn’t add up. And the only person Thomas feels like he can relay his frustrations to is Minho, as he’d been there, and he would perhaps be able to answer whether Alby had had a gun with him.

Thomas has spent the past few days mulling over that, too. With a semi-clearer mind, Thomas can grudgingly agree with Brenda that Minho had been scared, panicking, and did the first thing he could think of. It’s a cruel world, and it becomes every-man-for-himself at times. Hell, Thomas even _forgives_ him.

But it’s a cruel world, and Thomas has always had problems placing his trust in people too quickly, so while he _forgives_ Minho, he certainly doesn’t trust the guy, not with anything as important as his life. Not anymore.

It’s a cruel world.

Chuck has been taken from them, along with countless others. Any measure of innocence has fled from him, and Thomas barley recognizes himself anymore, hardened to the horrors of the world; it scares him, how used to death he’s become. Playing soccer with everyone in the summer heat seems years ago now.

He still has yet to properly break down and cry, and he hasn’t been sleeping hardly at all, wanting to avoid the nightmares. Newt keeps sending him concerned looks whenever they’re together, but Thomas just has too much going on to lose it right now. They can’t afford it. Maybe eventually, but not right now.

“Hey.”

Minho fumbles with the match in his hand. He attempts to catch it, even though it’s burning, and he drops it on the ground with a small hiss of pain, shaking out his hand. He turns to Thomas, a myriad of emotions flitting across his face.

He settles on an unsure smile. “Hey.”

“I need to talk to you,” Thomas continues. Minho’s been trying, unsuccessfully, to light the fire for fifteen minutes now. Thomas has been watching on in amusement, curiously noting that Minho is wearing his long sleeved shirt, despite the hot day. 

They haven’t gone into town since they lost Alby. The supplies Minho and Thomas (and Brenda and Jorge) brought back are enough to last for at least another two weeks. Maybe even longer, now that Alby and Chuck are gone.

“Then talk,” Minho grunts. He strikes another match and lets the fire catch the crumpled ball of newspaper. A few small branches catch, and soon the fire is blazing.

Thomas sits down a small distance from the fire, just close enough to feel the warmth, but not enough for it to make him sweat excessively. The sun is setting anyway, and the sweltering heat of the day is leaving with it.

“So Alby,” Thomas begins. He doesn’t miss the way Minho stiffens at the name. “Did he have a gun on him when we went?”

“No…” Minho says slowly, though it sounds more like a question than an answer. He turns to Thomas, visibly confused. “I told him it wouldn’t be a good idea, cuz he’s got a bit of a trigger-finger, and I didn’t want it to put us in any danger. He left it here. Why?”

Thomas doesn’t like the implications. He doesn’t like them _at all_.

“Why?” Minho repeats.

“Because once Alby and I were about to leave, something kept him in the building when I got outside. Then there were gunshots. From inside.”

Minho frowns. “There can’t have been. Alby didn’t _have_ a gun with him.”

“Think about it,” Thomas says. Minho does, and his eyes widen comically.

“Wait, so— wait. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that it wasn’t a _Crank_ that grabbed Alby. It couldn’t have been, we’d have heard it. They can’t exactly creep up on you. And with the gunshots…it had to be a person. Someone was in the building. Probably before we even got there.”

“The same one from when we were in the dollar store?” Minho asks excitedly. Thomas shakes his head.

“Can’t be. They wouldn’t have had time to get from one place to the other that fast.”

“That means there were two of them,” Minho finishes, finally catching on to Thomas’s thought process. “Think it was be the others? Winston, Jeff, and Zart?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas sighs. He lies down on his back, pillows his head on his arms, and gazes up at the dimming sky. “Could be. It’s impossible to say.”

“We gotta go back anyway,” Minho says slowly. “Maybe we can look around, find something to tell us… _something_.”

Thomas’s eyes focus on a particularly-shaped cloud.

“I know why you did it,” Thomas says. It’s a non sequitur, sure it is, but this is the real reason Thomas needed to talk to him.

It takes a long while for Minho to answer, but Thomas doesn’t look away from the cloud. He thinks is could be a dog, if dogs had weirdly long necks.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s kind of late for that, but I’m sorry. I didn’t even think, I just…ran.”

“It’s okay,” Thomas says. “You thought you were gonna die. I get it, man, I don’t blame ya.”

“I—”

“Would you say that cloud looks like a dog? That one there.” Thomas points up.

“I, uh…nah, I think it looks more like a horse. Or maybe a dinosaur.”

Thomas snorts out a laugh.

Yeah; at least for now, him and Minho are okay.

 

They cloud-watch until they can’t see the clouds anymore, the sky a dark inkiness dotted with stars.

Frypan and Newt join them at the fire just as the moon appears over the tree-line. They all lie around the fire, soaking up the warmth and each other’s silent company. Thomas slaps at a mosquito that lands on his face.

It’s not long before Gally, Clint, Brenda, and Jorge filter in one-by-one, and the bonfire becomes a silent vigil. For Alby. For Chuck. For Ben. For all those who they’ve lost.

The mosquitos become unbearable after about twenty minutes. Clint is the first to retreat to his and Frypan’s tent, shutting himself away from everyone. Gally goes next. He and Minho are sharing a tent now. Alby’s rule that no one sleeps alone is still intact, so it would seem.

A chilly breeze floats though the air, just cold enough to be uncomfortable, and Thomas decides to call it a night. He takes his shoes off outside the tent as to not track dirt inside. He shucks off his socks, shirt, and pants and he curls up on his sleeping bag, feeling empty and lost and heartsick.

Newt doesn’t come in.

Thomas doesn’t realize this until an hour later, when the faint light from the fire has died down only to burning embers and the chirping of crickets drowns out any other noise. Except the faint rumble of the dam. And the quiet crunching of uneven footsteps as they pass by his tent.

Thomas sits up. He scrambles around in the dark for his pants. He shimmies into his jeans, but foregoes the socks and shoes and shirt as he hastily slips out of the tent. The moon is bright enough to see by, so Thomas goes without his flashlight, too. He pads after Newt’s dark silhouette, the limp heavy and very visible in how he walks, for once not bothering to hide it.

Newt leads them to the dam. He stops halfway across the bridge, looking out at the black, shimmering water. He gropes for something in his pocket, his jacket rustling.

Thomas’s eyes have adjusted to the dim light, and Newt’s skin looks ashen, almost white, in the moon’s pale gleam.

There’s a quiet _shlick_ , and a small burst of fire casts eerie shadows across Newt’s face. Newt lights the cigarette between his fingers and slides the box and lighter back into his pocket. He breathes in deeply and blows out the smoke in a long, drawn-out exhale, tilting his head up toward the sky.

Thomas finds himself staring. He blinks himself back into the present and scuffs his bare foot through the gravel to get Newt’s attention. Newt turns toward him. His expression is unreadable in the darkness. The tip of the cigarette is a bright orange glow, a tiny pinprick of light. Newt puffs out another breath of smoke. He leans forward, propping his elbows up on the rusted railing.

“Hey, Tommy,” he says, his words almost drowned out by the roaring dam. Just like his face, his voice is difficult to read.

“Hey.” Thomas walks over, slowly sidling up to Newt’s side. Any fragments of hesitation dissolve as Thomas copies him, leaning against the rail and looking out at the moon’s reflection on the lake. The dam roars beneath them. After so much time, the sound has become a comfort rather than an annoyance.

They don’t talk. Newt offers the cigarette to Thomas, who takes a long drag and gives it back. He lets the smoke sit in his lungs and breathes out slowly.

They don’t talk. Thomas shivers at the cool breeze against his skin, and Newt presses against him, shoulder-to-shoulder and radiating warmth.

They don’t talk. Newt doesn’t finish the cigarette. He puts it out on the railing, tucks the remaining half back into the box, and they walk back to the tent in companionable silence.

Newt enters the tent first, holding the flap open as Thomas wipes his dirty feet off in a patch of grass before clambering inside himself. They maneuver around each other, getting ready for bed, plunged in almost total darkness now.

Thomas thinks of the freezer.

A hand settles on his scarred shoulder, then slides up to rest on the junction between his shoulder and his neck. It’s calming.

“Lay down,” Newt whispers, a sound so soft that Thomas half-thinks he imagined it. But he lowers himself to the floor, lying on top of his sleeping bag rather than in it. Newt drags his own sleeping bag closer and overlaps the edges of them. He lies atop his own sleeping bag and pats his chest. Thomas is struck with a wave of déjà vu.

He sprawls across Newt. He slides his left leg between either of Newt’s and Thomas presses his face into Newt’s neck, as though to hide away. Newt pulls the thin, ratty blanket over both of them and wraps his arms around Thomas. He shifts and presses his lips to Thomas’s head, nose buried in his hair.

Thomas doesn’t fall asleep until long after Newt does, concentrating on Newt’s steady breaths and trying to ingrain them, and everything else, into his mind.

He doesn’t want to forget this. Not ever.

* * *

He wakes up alone, to the sound of whispered voices just outside. Thomas pushes himself up and creeps over to the tent’s opening. The flap is unzipped, fluttering in the light breeze, letting in the weak sunlight, and Thomas crouches down to listen.

“What the _hell_ , Minho!” Newt hisses.

“I know I fucked up,” Minho says lowly, urgently. “I _know_ that, but it hasn’t…I haven’t… _turned_ yet. I think I should tell Clint.”

“You realize what that means, right?” Newt says. “The bite turns you within a day, maybe two at most. It’s been four, Minho.”

“God, _I know_ ,” Minho groans.

“I can’t believe— why would you _hide_ it, mate? Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I didn’t…I didn’t want to put you through that,” Minho finally says. “I…as soon as I started feelin’ off, I planned to sneak away and off myself.”

Newt doesn’t reply, and Minho doesn’t prompt him. Thomas slides into his jeans and by the time he steps out of the tent, Minho and Newt are expecting him.

“I take it you heard all that?” Newt says. He gestures to Minho, then folds his arm across his chest. He has all of his weight balanced over his good leg, popping his hip out and looking very unhappy.

“Yeah,” Thomas affirms. He looks Minho over, biting at his lip. “Where?”

Minho kneels down and rolls up his jeans to reveal his ankle. Thomas presses his lips together at the sight of it.

The punctures aren’t bleeding anymore, but dried blood surrounds the area, and the bite is even beginning to scab over. It’s not deep, more of a scrape than a bite, but there’s no denying its presence on Minho’s skin.

“I was hiding and this Crank came outta nowhere, took me by surprise, got me on the ground. It was too fast for me to stop, but I think I pushed it off before it did too much damage.”

“How’d you hide it? When you got back,” Thomas says.

“Waited for it to stop bleeding first,” Minho says. “Then I rinsed it off as soon as I got the chance.”

“And you’ve been feeling fine?” Thomas asks. A bubble of hope rises in his chest.

He never…he never even _considered_ that there could be immunes that weren’t in WICKED’s clutches. 

“Minho,” Thomas says, “when you were with WICKED…you said you were with them for a few months?”

“ _A_ month, yes,” Minho confirms, eyebrows furrowing. He and Newt exchange a quick glance, but Thomas barely catches it, theories racing through his mind too quickly to comprehend them all.

“Tommy?” Newt says. “I see those wheels spinnin’. What’s goin’ on in that brain of yours?”

“I don’t…” Thomas huffs out a breath, agitated, and attempts to organize his thoughts. “Minho. Did they ever test on you? Take blood samples, give you shots, keep you cut off from the general population, that sorta thing?”

Minho shifts in discomfort. “I, uh, yeah. Me and a group of three other boys our age were bunked together. One of the guys was Brenda’s brother. He didn’t, um…make it out. None of them did.”

The realization strikes Thomas hard. “Brenda and Jorge helped you get out?”

“Yeah. Why, Thomas, what are you thinkin’?”

Thomas pushes his hand through his hair. “You’re a Muine; you had the Flare before you ever got bit.”

Minho gapes at him. Newt remains quiet, and when Thomas spares him a glance, he’s looking down and picking at his fingernails.

“How are you sure?” Minho asks.

“Because it’s the same with me. After the first few months, that’s what WICKED started doing with anyone under eighteen and over ten. They’d separate them from everyone else and inject them with the virus. Well, a strand of the virus. Most kids turned, but the ones that didn’t, they tested on.”

Minho openly stares at him, expression an unchanging look of shock. Newt pulls his lower lip between his teeth and shakes his head slowly, disbelievingly.

“That’s shucked up,” Minho whispers.

No one disagrees.

* * *

The brightness of the sunlight hurts Thomas’s eyes, even inside the tent. He wants nothing more than to sleep, but energy buzzes beneath his skin, refusing to let him. He lies on his side, curled atop his sleeping bag, and uses his folded-up blanket as a makeshift pillow. He stares at the hunk of wood in his hands.

Really, it’s not well-made at all. The carvings are clumsy and rough and it’s barely discernible what the thing even is. But Chuck made it.

Thomas stares at the hunk of wood in his hands. He turns it over in his hands, studying every angle, curve, and cut.

He prays that Chuck is still out there, alive and okay. That he’s safe.

Or that he died a quick death.

It’s been almost two weeks.

The figurine blurs and Thomas blinks, tears catching on his eyelashes.

He stares at the hunk of wood in his hands and he wants to scream. He hadn’t even been that close to him but… _Why Chuck? Why_ Chuck _? Why why why—_

He can’t stand it anymore. The buzz under his skin. He needs to get up. He needs to _do_ something, _anything_.

Thomas sits up. He drops the figurine into his front pocket, wipes his eyes with the hem of his tee shirt, and unzips the tent.

The sun is unrelenting. It must be around noon, and the second Thomas steps out of the tent, he feels like he’s choking on the air, it’s so hot.

He shucks off his shirt and tosses it into the tent before zipping it back up.

There is absolutely no one at the campsites. Thomas looks around, pivoting on his foot, but he spots nobody. He licks his chapped lips and feels the beginning dregs of panic pool in his stomach when he hears a sharp whoop.

He jogs toward the noise, and it leads him right to the dam. 

There, he finds Minho, Newt, and Frypan, sitting on the small beach with their bare feet in the water.

For the first time in two weeks, they don’t look completely miserable. Minho is telling a joke. Frypan is _smiling_. And Newt—

Thomas is staring. He knows it. But how could he not?

Newt tries to stifle it at first. His tongue sweeps over his bottom lip, but his shoulders shake. Then Newt is _laughing_. His head tips back just the slightest bit, and his sunburned cheeks grow even redder as he laughs. His face is lit up with happiness.

To see it now, after going so long without, Thomas’s breath is stolen right from his lungs. The sight leaves him awestruck to the point where he can do nothing but stare, wide-eyed and stunned.

“Hey Thomas!”

Thomas startles and rips his gaze from Newt. Frypan is grinning at him, waving him down. He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts again.

“Come here, man!”

He crosses the bridge above the dam and nearly trips down the wooden staircase, missing a step. Minho and Frypan laugh at him. Thomas avoids looking at Newt, feeling his cheeks redden in embarrassment.

“What are you guys doing down here? Where’s everyone else?” Thomas asks, eyes flitting between Fry and Minho. Minho is the first to catch his breath. He wipes his forehead.

“Well, as you can tell, it’s sweltering hot out today, so we thought we’d, y’know, mess around in the water,” Minho shrugs. He, Fry, and Newt are all shirtless, their pants rolled up to their knees. Minho’s bite is on display, visible even through the water. After he'd told everyone, Clint and Gally had both not believed him, but the proof is right there in his skin.

“And everyone else?” Thomas persists. 

“Went into town, s’far as I know,” Newt says. “Gally said he wanted to go look for Chuck. I’m pretty sure Brenda and Jorge went with ‘im.”

“Pretty sure?” Thomas scoffs. Newt’s expression falls, then darkens. Thomas's heart jumps into his throat.

“Yeah, ‘pretty sure’,” Newt snaps. “They don’t need a babysitter, Thomas. They’ll be just fine. We’ve got Clint at the camp with the radio, anyway, in case they contact us.”

Thomas feels like an asshole.

Correction: he _is_ an asshole.

“Sorry,” he mumbles under his breath. He looks down, silently berating himself. Newt had been _happy_. Thomas _ruined_ it.

_Maybe Brenda’s wrong. Maybe it would do these guys so much better if I just leave and don’t—_

“Nah, s’all fine,” Newt says, his tone light once more. He chuckles. “We’re all stressed at the moment. Can’t blame ya for bein’ on edge.”

Thomas looks up. Looks at Newt. Then nods, slowly.

“Take your shoes off and dip your feet in with us. We’re tryna see who can come up with the worst joke,” Minho says.

Thomas sits. He pulls his shoes off, rolls up his jeans, and scoots over to join them. The water is cold, lapping at his ankles, and it makes the sun on his skin feel that much hotter.

“Swimming sounds so nice right now,” Thomas sighs, eyes snagging on the rippling of the river, the sunbeams catching on the fast-flowing current.

“We stay away from the middle, and that’s a great idea,” Frypan says.

“I second that,” Minho agrees, then stands. He kicks his jeans off in the sand and races into the water in only his boxers. Frypan whoops and does the same, lungeing forward to tackle Minho. Minho steps aside just in time, and Frypan crashes into the water.

Droplets land on Thomas’s skin, and it feels amazing.

“Gonna join ‘em, Tommy?”

Thomas hums. “Well, I mean, I _would_ , if I knew how to swim.”

Newt’s head snaps to him, a shocked look in his eyes. “You can’t swim?”

Thomas shakes his head. “We never lived in any one place long enough for me to learn. It was never really relevant. I can kayak, I’ve done that. Only ever with a life jacket on, though.”

Newt gets this look in his eyes.

“You’re gonna have to buggin' learn,” he says. “Can’t have you drowning on us, of _all_ the ways to go.”

“That would be a little ridiculous,” Thomas agrees. Newt uses Thomas’s shoulder as a crutch to lever himself to his feet. He grins, teeth flashing, and it’s almost as blinding as the sun itself.

“C’mon, then. Not to say I’ll be the best teacher, but, oh well.” Newt shrugs. He grabs Thomas by the bicep and yanks. Thomas, not expecting such strength from the lanky boy, almost ends up smacking his face into the sand, only saved by Newt pulling him up.

“Geez, ya klutz," Newt says with a laugh.

Thomas chuckles sheepishly. Newt shakes his head lightly, fondly, lets go of Thomas’s arm to pulls off his jeans. Thomas does as well. Newt grips his bicep once again, and he tugs him over to the stairs.

“Minho, dude, can I change my wager?” Frypan says behind them, barely loud enough to be heard. Minho’s laugh rings out, loud and unabashed.

“What are they talking about?” Thomas asks, turning to Newt. He doesn’t miss a step this time. Newt just snorts.

“With them? Who bloody _knows_ ,” he says. He leads him up to the bridge, then down the opposite side. The land doesn’t slope quite as bad here, and there are no stairs to aid their way down to the lake. The dam thunders behind them.

They wade out into the water. When it reaches Thomas’s chest, he stops abruptly. Newt attempts to drag him, his hand slipping down to Thomas wrist, but Thomas refuses to budge.

“This is deep enough,” he says stubbornly.

“Don’t be daft. Come on, just a little further.”

Newt manages to coax him out to where the water is lapping at his armpits, but that’s where Thomas draws the line.

“Nope, this is definitely far enough. I’m not—” His voice rises in an alarmed cry as Newt _literally_ sweeps him off of his feet, pulling on his wrist and grabbing him. Newt backpedals quickly, and by the time Thomas thinks to dig his feet into the sandy floor, the water is up to his ears.

His heart pounds in his chest and he clings to Newt tightly, wrapping his legs around his waist and clutching at his shoulders. Thomas stares at him, eyes wide in shock and fear.

“I gotcha, don’t freak out on me,” Newt says, and he holds him. The water laps at Newt’s chin, but doesn’t come any higher. Thomas never realized their height difference more than he’s realizing it now. They’re at eye-level right now, but only because Thomas is hugging him like a goddamn koala. It’s like a reverse piggy-back ride.

Thomas rolls his eyes internally at the thought and frowns at Newt, heart racing.

“You’re a _jerk_ ,” he huffs. “Go back. Take me back.”

Newt releases his hold on him, but that just makes Thomas grip tighter.

“Nope, nope, I’m not doing that,” he babbles. Newt attempts to pry Thomas’s hands away from his shoulders, and Thomas smacks his hands away. “ _No._ ”

Newt sighs in exasperation. “Come on, Tommy. I’m not gonna let you drown or nothin’.”

Thomas says nothing, head jerking as he looks around the crystal blue of the lake. He hooks his ankles around Newt’s back, leaving only a small gap between them, and tries to calm his racing heart.

Why it’s still trying to leap out of his chest, he doesn’t know.

“Hey. _Hey_.”

Thomas’s gaze snaps to Newt. His face is inches, _centimeters_ away.

A few strings of hair stick against his sweaty forehead. A droplet of water is clinging to his earlobe. The sun is shining against his eyes in a way that turns them into a molten gold. A hint of a smile tugs at his lips.

His expression has softened, not quite a look of pity, but…something else. Something Thomas can’t put a name to.

“You trust me, yeah?” Newt says. Thomas wants to look away, but Newt has drawn him in. He couldn’t look away if his life depended on it.

“Yeah,” Thomas whispers. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. His grip slackens, fingers no longer curling into Newt’s shoulders but simply sitting there instead. He swallows hard.

Newt smiles.

It takes a minute to summon up the courage, but Thomas allows his legs to drop. As he does, he finds himself squeezing Newt’s shoulders again. He kicks his legs jerkily, and his knee knocks against Newt’s thigh.

“You okay?” Newt asks. Thomas forces his legs still.

“I-I’m, I’m somethin’,” he says, swallowing against his dry throat. Newt’s hands find his waist in the water.

“I’m gonna put a bit of distance between us now. That all right?” he asks. “I promise, I won’t let go.”

Thomas hesitates, lets out a quick rush of air. “Okay, yeah.”

Newt pushes him back slowly, the water rippling at the small movements.

Thomas is almost a whole arms-length away when panic seizes him out of nowhere. He grabs at Newt’s biceps beneath the water, fingers digging into his skin.

“Don’t— _don’t let go_ ,” Thomas chokes, breath hitching.

“I won’t.”

“Don’t let go.”

“I’m not gonna let you go. I promise.”

* * *

By the time the sun is creeping back down the horizon, Thomas has learned successfully learned how to float on his back and keep himself above water without help. Maybe not _swim_ , but at least now he knows how to not drown.

“You two were at it for a while,” Minho comments. Thomas shrugs and towels off his hair with his shirt.

“He was teaching me how to swim.”

“Yeah, we saw,” Minho says. And for some reason, Thomas is suddenly self-conscious. And, somehow, Minho seems to catch it.

He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s all good, shank. So, you a pro now or what?”

Thomas laughs. “Oh definitely. I could beat your ass in a swim race any day of the week.”

Minho raises his eyebrows, lips quirking into a smile. “Oh _really_?”

“Yep,” Thomas says. He tosses his damp tee shirt on the picnic table and hops up to sit. “How much you willin’ to bet?”

Minho snorts. “Shuck that, I already got a running bet at the moment to focus on. Maybe you’ll have to prove it to me later.”

Thomas shrugs, takes a sip of his lukewarm water. “Sounds good to me.”

They both look over at the sound of approaching voices and footsteps crunching in gravel. Minho perks up, expression hopeful.

Gally, Brenda, and Jorge round the corner. Each one has a backpack full of supplies, but they’re missing the one thing Thomas had hoped for them to find. _Chuck_.

Minho’s face falls, and the look makes Thomas’s stomach twist into knots. He jumps down from the table and joins Frypan by the fire.

“Whatcha doin’?” Thomas asks, clearing the roughness from his throat. Frypan spares him a small glance.

“Boiling water to make soup. Brenda found a bunch of ramen noodle packets, so I thought a half-real dinner might be nice for once.”

Thomas agrees. “Thanks, man, it’s nice of you to do this for us.”

Fry shakes his head. “Nah, man, it’s what I like to do. This is my thing. Back in high school, I was just starting to look into culinary schools.”

Something pangs in Thomas’s chest. He folds his legs and sits next to Fry.

“Yeah,” he says, “I was…well, I had no clue what I wanted to do. But I knew I wanted to go to college. Maybe something with science. Always thought that type of stuff was cool.”

“Clint was always adamant on being a doctor,” Frypan says. Thomas hums.

“You knew Clint before all this?”

“Nah,” Frypan chuckles, “we met pretty early on, though. Met up with Alby and his posse of teenagers. Back then, it was only him, Ben, Newt, Minho, and Gally. There used to be a whole lot of us.”

Thomas stares into the flickering flames, takes a sip of his water. He glances over. “Got any stories?”

Frypan looks at him and grins. “Oh, I got _plenty_. Got a few on Minho and Newt, especially.”

Thomas listens. He listens to the shenanigans that Minho and Newt got up to. He listens to how Chuck joined the group. How they came across Jeff and Zart and another boy named Stan. How some kid named Jake tried to start a fight with Gally. How Winston almost led a Crank right to their doorstep.

Then the soup is done, and so are the stories.

“Come eat!” Frypan bellows. Thomas rubs his ear, but smiles all the same. The eight of them gather at one picnic table, squeezing four per side, and they help themselves. Thomas burns the roof of his mouth, not patient enough to let the noodles cool down, but it’s totally worth it for the taste.

“Hey, guess what Gally found,” Brenda says, the volume of her voice rising above the clamor and gaining everyone’s attention.

 _Not Chuck_ , Thomas thinks, the bitter thought striking him hard.

“Wha’ did ‘e find?” Minho garbles through a mouthful of noodles. Newt elbows him in the side, muttering something about manners.

Brenda turns to Gally. She gestures. “Well, show ‘em.”

Gally sighs an extremely put-upon sigh, but a smile cracks the facade. He leans down and pulls something up from his feet, slamming it down on the table. Two somethings, actually.

Minho’s eyes just about bug out of his head.

“Those are big bottles. Those aren’t even _opened_ ,” he says. Gally smirks.

“I know,” he says arrogantly. “Found ‘em in—”

“Oh, I don’t care where you found them!” Clint cries. He snatches one, to the outrage of both Minho and Gally. He holds up a hand. “Look guys, do you realize how low we are on rubbing alcohol? This might end up saving your lives eventually. You can thank me later.”

Clint darts off towards the largest camper to stow the bottle away. Thomas looks at the other one.

“So, do we just…pass it around?” he asks. Jorge shrugs.

“I don’t see why not. I say I get the first drink, though. I’m the oldest.”

Minho tries to put up an argument, but it’s only half-hearted, and soon they’re all passing the bottle around.

Newt takes an impressive few gulps and hands it off to Thomas, who sloshes it around. He presses his lips to the bottle and takes a tentative sip.

And proceeds to spray it all over Frypan across the table. He coughs. 

“What _is_ that?” he splutters, setting the bottle on the table to cough into his arm. Newt cackles and Minho slaps him on the back. 

“Man up, man! Come on, try it again!” Minho urges.

Thomas does. This time, he gets a few swallows in before he has to pull away. It burns as it slides down his throat, settling in his stomach. He gives the bottle to Minho, who starts chugging immediately. Brenda snatches it from him with a squawk of protest.

“Don’t drink it all!” she snaps. Thomas looks at the bottle. There’s easily still over half left.

  

Most of them stop after their second time around. Newt denies even the second one, turning the bottle over to Thomas.

Thomas calls it quits after his fourth, handing the bottle off and letting Minho have at it. Everyone cheers him on as he polishes it off, and Thomas snickers. Giggles build up in his chest, bubbly and light.

“Oh my God, you two _chicos_ are such lightweights. At least everyone else was smart enough to stop,” Jorge says, grinning at Thomas and Minho. Minho stands up abruptly, mouth dropping open.

“Pssh, that’s…that is not even true!” he cries in outrage. “I’m not even—”

He stumbles backward and barely catches himself before falling. Thomas bursts into laughter, face reddening as he struggles to breathe. He grips the table to stay upright, slumping sideways against Newt.

“You just…” he hiccups. Tears of laughter stream down his face. “He-he just…”

“Okay,” Newt says. He claps Thomas on the shoulder. Bare shoulder. 

Thomas wonders where his shirt went.

“—to bed, it’s gettin’ late.”

“Newt, where’s my shirt?” Thomas asks, head jerking around. He frowns, and he’s still frowning when Newt tugs him to his feet.

“I threw it back in the tent with mine. C’mon, we need to get you to bed,” Newt says. Minho is shouting something, but he breaks into barking laughter before he can get it out.

Thomas giggles at the sound, blinking around the campground. Jorge is guiding Brenda over to their shared tent, Gally and Clint are both gone from sight, and Frypan is trying to drag Minho into a tent.

“Wha— wait a minute, hold up,” he says. He pushes at Newt’s shoulders, makes him stop. “Why’s…why’s Minho going in Fry’s tent? I thought Minho shared with Gally?”

Thomas gasps. He leans in towards Newt and whispers conspiratorially, “Are Frypan and Minho _dating_?”

Newt laughs at that. Honest to God _laughs_ , and Thomas can’t help the goofy grin that spreads over his lips. He likes making Newt laugh. It’s nice.

“No, you slinthead,” Newt snickers. His hand finds Thomas’s wrist. “Bloody hell, you’re gonna have one bitchin’ headache tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Thomas huffs. His eyes land on the blue tent. Their tent. He shakes Newt’s hand away from his arm. “I can walk fine. I don’t even need help.”

He steps.

He steps.

He steps.

He…he’s not walking in a straight line.

Thomas erupts into breathless giggles and tries to right himself. He overestimates his adjustments and lists to the left. He staggers and throws his arms out.

A pair of hands grab him by the arms and balance him. “Don’t need help, huh?”

Thomas tips his head back and grins up at Newt.

“Maybe I just _wanted_ you to help me,” he says, smug. “I’m _clever_ like that.”

Newt suppresses a smile. “I’m sure you are.”

“I _am_ ,” Thomas nods.

“Right,” Newt agrees, and he steers him toward the tent. Every time Thomas stumbles, Newt is there to make sure he doesn’t fall.

“Watch your step, there’s an—”

Thomas trips over the lip of the tent and goes sprawling on the sleeping bags.

“—edge,” Newt finishes.

Thomas presses his face into the material of the sleeping bag and chortles.

“You’re a bloody mess.”

Thomas shrugs. He sits up and goes to remove his shirt, only to find that he isn’t wearing one. His brow furrows.

“Newt, where…where’s my shirt?” he asks, bewildered.

“A bloody _mess_ ,” Newt repeats. “Here, let me help you get your shoes off.”

Newt helps him strip down to his boxers, then forces him to lie down.

“Trust me, you’ll want to get some sleep, Tommy.”

“Tommy…” Thomas echoes. His eyes slip shut. “No one else calls me ‘Tommy’.”

Newt takes a long time to reply. “Does it bother you?”

Thomas’s eyes fly open.

“No!” he says, too quick. “Well, I mean, no. No, I mean, I like it. It’s nice.”

Newt flops down on the tangle of blankets and sleeping bags.

He looks over at Thomas.

Thomas looks back. He doesn’t realize he’s inching closer until his forehead is resting against Newt’s, their noses brushing. Thomas exhales slowly, shutting his eyes.

“Hey, Newt?” he whispers. Newt doesn’t reply, but Thomas can feel his expectant gaze burning into his face.

Thomas falls asleep before he can think of a way to phrase his thoughts, and the unsaid words hang between them.


	12. Chapter 12

_The bleach-white walls and artificial lights burned into his eyes. The hallway seemed to stretch on in front of him forever, an illusion that made his head throb._

_Thomas looked around, pivoting on his foot to turn in a small circle._

_There was a door. Thomas walked up to it, hesitating. He tried to handle, and to his surprise, found it to be unlocked. He pushed the door open. Dread turned the blood in his veins to ice._

_Oddly, no sound came from the speakers in the ceiling, but the alarm lights were on, casting a flashing red glow over the room._

_WICKED scientists, soldiers. Dead. Bodies strewn across the lab, blood smeared along the white tiles._

_“No,” he breathed._

_Glass from a shattered beaker crunched under his shoes as he cautiously stepped into the room. His eyes immediately darted to the containment unit along the wall. The wall of glass that should have been there was broken, jagged edges of glass jutting out from the hole._

_The Crank that should have been inside wasn’t there._

_Thomas had always been the apprehensive one about testing on real Cranks. It had been the Chancellor’s idea, backed by AD Janson and Teresa. She had explained to Thomas that it was necessary in their efforts to find a cure._

_Thomas had always found it sickening._

_A sharp scream and a snarl caught his attention. A choked gurgle. Thomas’s eyes flicked toward the noise. He moved around the counter that blocked his view._

_The Crank was knelt over a struggling figure. The person’s eyes met Thomas’s, and his stomach flipped._

_Alby._

_“No!” Thomas screamed. The Crank shifted its attention to Thomas the same second that Alby’s eyes rolled back and he stopped moving._

_Thomas’s breath caught in his throat when he looked at the Crank. Its mouth and chin were coated in Alby’s blood. Black veins bulged under the skin. Brown curls were torn out in some places._

_But Thomas recognized the Crank._

_“Chuck,” Thomas whispered. The Crank screeched and rushed toward him. Thomas turned on his heel and darted towards the door, just managing to seal it behind him before the Crank slammed into it._

_“Thomas, help me!” Chuck’s terrified voice was muffled by the door. “Thomas! Thomas, help!”_

_He ran. The hallway was never-ending. He came across a second door, just as he heard an enraged shriek from behind him._

_“You left me to die!” Somehow, the voice belonged to both Alby and Chuck. He couldn’t look behind him._

_Thomas sprinted for the door, slamming it and locking it. The room was pitch-black. It smelled of rot and spoiled dairy. He heaved for breath, choked sobs and breathless whimpers being the only sound coming from the room._

_It took him several seconds to realize the sound wasn’t coming from just him._

_He scrambled to his feet, hand running along the wall in desperate search for the light. His fingers bumped against the switch, and he flicked it up._

_The light provided was dim. The room was tiny. The size of a small, walk-in freezer._

_A figure, a boy, sat huddled in the corner, back facing Thomas. His tee shirt was torn and tattered._

_Gasping and crying. Sobbing, whimpering, trembling._

_Thomas stepped forward slowly, cautiously._

_“Hello?” he whispered. The boy went silent. The quaking of his shoulders stopped._

_“Who are you?” Thomas asked. The boy rose to his feet. He was taller than Thomas. His blond hair was a knotted, unkempt mess, so matted and filthy it could have been brown._

_The boy’s arms dropped down to his sides, and Thomas saw for the first time that the boy held a gun in his trembling hand._

_The crying resumed, now louder and more distressed._

_“Tommy…” the boy whispered. He turned around._

_“Newt, what—”_

_Then Thomas saw the bite on Newt’s forearm. Dark veins twisted and roped up his arm from the bite, already straining up the side of his neck and evident on his cheeks and forehead._

_“No,” Thomas croaked. “No. No, you—”_

_Newt limped forward, nearly collapsing in Thomas’s arms when he reached him. He pressed the gun into Thomas’s hands and staggered back a few steps, using the wall to support his weight._

_“You have to kill me,” Newt rasped._

_“No, I—”_

_“You_ have _to!” Newt cried. “Kill me before I kill you!”_

_“I can’t do that,” Thomas pleaded, horror threatening to suffocate him. “Don’t make me do that.”_

_Newt’s entire personality seemed to flip. He became enraged, wailing and rushing forward, with no sign of a limp whatsoever. He tackled Thomas to the ground and climbed on top of him, his weight pressing him down. He twisted the gun in Thomas’s hands and forced the muzzle against his own forehead before Thomas could get over his shock._

_“No!” Thomas yelled, ripping his hand away and sending the gun skittering across the floor._

_“Shoot me!” Newt howled, spit and bits of black slime hitting Thomas’s face._

_“I_ can’t _!” Thomas screamed back. Newt’s entire body slumped on his, the sudden strength leaving him. His voice trembled._

_“Please, Tommy. Please.”_

* * *

His head pounds. A too-warm, heavy weight crushes his chest and stomach, making breathing difficult. His eyes snap open. It’s dark. Pitch-black.

A strangled noise escapes his throat in the form of a breathless scream, and he shoves at the body as hard as he can. It slides off of him, followed by a thud and a small yelp, but Thomas pays it no mind as he pushes himself as far away as he can.

“No!” he cries. He curls in on himself, hides his face in his hands. “No, I can’t _do_ it! I can’t— I, I can’t—”

His lungs refuse to cooperate with him and he gasps for air, terror so strong that it makes him dizzy.

A pair of hands grabs his wrists, attempt to pry them away from his face, and Thomas chokes on a shallow breath.

“Tommy—”

A new wave of dread.

“No,” he rasps. “ _Please_ , please don’t make me—”

“Tommy, Thomas, hey. _Thomas_.”

His face twists in anguish and tears burn behind his eyes as he gasps. He can’t breathe.

“Hey, hey, it was just a dream. You’re all right now. But you’ve got to calm down, mate. Just calm down, all right?” Newt says, and the tension rushes from his Thomas’s body. Newt pulls his hands away from his face, forces his head down between his knees. A warm hand rests on his shoulder, another on his knee.

Slowly, so slowly, breathing becomes easier. The jackhammering throb in his head begins to recede, just slightly.

The hand on his knee squeezes.

“There ya go. There you are,” Newt says. Thomas sits upright, squints through the darkness to try to see Newt’s face.

He brings his hands up to Newt’s cheeks, cupping them in his hands. His hands are shaking so violently that he can’t tell whether the bulging, blackened veins are there or not.

“I need to see you,” Thomas says hoarsely, voice catching and breaking over his words. Newt leans away from him, roots around in the darkness. A flicking noise, and a soft light fills the freezer.

The tent. Not freezer. They’re in the tent.

A relieved breath escapes his lips, and Thomas’s eyes settle on Newt’s face. The light casts harsh shadows that make him look washed out and sickly, but the veins are nonexistent.

Thomas grabs Newt’s wrist and tugs him. He flips Newt’s arm over to stare at the inside of his forearm. No blood. No bite. No black veins.

Thomas releases another shuddering breath. He shuffles forward on his knees, pulls Newt in and hooks his chin over his bare shoulder, arms tight around his torso.

The embrace is returned almost immediately. A hand rubs up and down his back, fingers pressing feather-light touches into his skin, and Thomas sags against him. The relief is almost overwhelming, but it’s tinted with a sinking feeling of apprehension.

“Shh, it’s all right. I’ve got ya,” Newt says softly.

But Thomas can’t help his thoughts.

_What if Newt isn’t immune?_

 

He wakes up to distressed breaths right in his ear, warm breath against his cheek. Any remnants of a headache have miraculously faded. He turns his head, jerking back when he realizes how close Newt’s face is. 

It’s still dark outside, but it is just beginning to brighten. Just enough for Thomas to see Newt.

The blond is tucked up against Thomas’s side. He’s curled around Thomas’s body, hugging him as if Thomas is a huge teddy bear, his head resting on Thomas’s shoulder.

Thomas whole left arm is numb from Newt’s weight lying on it, pinpricks jolting down to the tips of his fingers.

Newt’s eyebrows are drawn into a deep frown. 

“Tommy,” he whimpers. His arms tighten around Thomas’s chest, and it’s then that Thomas realizes that he must be having a nightmare.

Thomas jolts, attempting to sit upright, but Newt holds him even tighter. His slings his left leg over both of Thomas’s, and his arms snake further around Thomas’s chest, pulling him closer.

“Newt, hey. Hey, wake up,” Thomas says. His voice is raspy from sleep. He tugs his right arm free from Newt’s constraining grasp and he brings it up to drag his fingers through his blond hair.

It’s different then when Thomas had done it before. Newt’s hair is much shorter than it had been, but it’s less knotted and tangled, more soft and silky to the touch. Newt’s expression eases out, and his iron grip slackens. Thomas breathes a quiet sigh of relief and repeats the motion.

A shaky puff of breath passes through Newt’s parted lips, and he shifts to press himself closer to Thomas, rolling onto his stomach. He’s half draped across Thomas now. He pulls his left leg back to slide it between either of Thomas’s.

The searing hardness is unexpected and unmistakeable against Thomas’s thigh, even through their boxers.

Both boys gasp.

Thomas feels his cheeks flame up with embarrassment.

Newt shifts again. He pushes his knee down against the ground, trapping Thomas’s leg between either of his own. He drags his whole body up.

The hardness scorches a line up his leg as Newt moves, settling finally against his hip.

Newt pulls his leg up with the rest of his body, and his thigh ends up being a firm pressure against Thomas’s groin as he straddles his thigh.

Newt rests his head on Thomas’s pillow. They're mere inches apart. Thomas can't look away from Newt's face.

The warmth of Newt’s breath is even closer now, blowing across Thomas’s face with each exhale.

Newt presses down. A strangled, breathy moan fills the space between them, and Newt's expression furrows back into that frown.

Thomas sucks in a breath.

"Newt," Thomas begins, "Newt, you gotta wake—"

Thomas chokes on his words as Newt grinds down a second time. Thomas barely restrains himself from rocking up into Newt's thigh.

This could get very bad, _very_ quickly.

" _Newt_ ," he forces out, the air punched from his lungs. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills his body back under control.

He's concentrating so intently that he doesn't notice when Newt's body goes still, or the way his breath stutters and pauses.

"Tommy?" Newt whispers. His voice is soft, yet laced with horror. Thomas opens his eyes. The heat of Newt's body leaves with him as he pulls himself up to sit, straddling Thomas's thigh.

The sudden loss of contact makes Thomas shiver.

Newt's expression is one of guilt and panic, evident even in the dim light.

"Shit, fuck, I am- I'm sorry, mate, _so_ bloody sorry. I'm sorry, here, just let me—" He tenses, prepared to get up, to flee, and Thomas panics.

Newt will surely avoid him after this. But Thomas can't lose him too. He means too much. Their friendship is far too important to be shattered by something like this.

Thomas lurches up. His fingers curl around Newt's wrist and he pulls.

He pulls hard. Harder than he meant to.

Newt isn't expecting it. If he had been, he surely would have caught himself.

He falls forward. He lands sprawled across Thomas. The sudden dead weight of Newt's body knocks the breath from Thomas's lungs just as Newt's forehead slams against his. Thomas's head jerks back and smacks against the ground, and his pillow saves him from a potential concussion.

Thomas's forehead throbs in pain, and he gasps for air.

"Bloody _hell_ ," Newt mutters. His voice is muffled, face pressed into the pillow beside Thomas's head.

Once Thomas is able to breathe again, he exhales out a groan, though the throbbing in his forehead has already diminished.

Newt turns his head to face Thomas, who stares up at the tarpaulin ceiling of the tent.

Thomas notices that they've regulated their breathing. When one exhales, the other inhales. Newt's body is a warm line of skin stretching from shoulder to ankle.

"All right?" Newt asks lowly, carefully, the words rumbling in his chest. He's even closer than he'd been in his sleep. So close that his lips brush against Thomas's ear as he speaks.

Thomas wonders if Newt even realizes the effect he's having.

"Yeah, fine," Thomas manages, though his voice is little more than a gravelly rasp.

Newt moves once again, an increase in pressure as he prepares to sit up.

Thomas feels the muscles in Newt's calf tighten, and he realizes that Newt's leg is, again, wedged between his thighs. Thomas spreads his legs further apart to give Newt the space to push himself up. 

Newt freezes. His body remains tense, and he's still enough that Thomas easily detects a different part of him going stiff, right alongside Thomas's own hardness.

"You're—" Newt begins, but stops. He lifts his head to gaze down at Thomas, propping himself up on his forearms on either side of Thomas's head.

He's frozen in place. His eyes lock on Thomas's. For a brief moment, he looks completely overwhelmed. So overwhelmed he can't function.

Thomas wonders whether the slight tremble of Newt's lips is a figment of his imagination.

The expression vanishes as quickly as it came. Newt's eyes flash. In the dim light, they look almost black.

Thomas's heart stutters.

"Newt," he whispers, " _please_."

_Do something._

Newt doesn't. He stares.

"Newt?"

And stares.

Thomas's voice trembles. " _Newt_ , I—"

Thomas cuts himself off when Newt moves. Hips grind down into Thomas's with such vigor that a broken gasp is pulled right from his throat.

Newt repeats the motion, and this time Thomas cants his hips up to meet him.

The pleasure is immediate, and it's _electrifying_.

Thomas throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, struggling for a decent breath as the heat swirls and pools in his gut.

Another press of hips.

Then another.

A soft warmth presses beneath his jaw, then trails down to his throat, a touch so light that it's barely there, almost tickling.

Thomas brings his hands up, palms flat against Newt's lower back. He drags them up, following the curve of his spine, until one rests on his shoulder and the other cups the back of his neck.

"Hey," Thomas breathes out. He curls his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of Newt's neck. "Hey, are you sure you want to—"

"Thomas." Newt sits up, glaring at him. "Stop talking."

Newt leans back down.

Thomas hesitates. "But, I—"

His voice catches, breath hitching, as Newt's lips part and his tongue sweeps over his skin. It's followed by a light scrape of teeth, then another swipe of tongue.

Thomas breathes out, the sound leaving his lips in the form of a choked whine.

Newt's breath ghosts over his skin as he inches down. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to Thomas's collarbone, punctuating each one with a small nip of teeth.

Thomas stifles a groan at a particularly sharp bite.

"I _said_ ," Newt growls, mouth grazing his skin, " _stop bloody talking_." 

Newt drags his lips back up. He mouths at the edge of Thomas's jaw, just below his ear.

Thomas's eyes flutter shut and he exhales, tips his head to the side to give him better access. The hand on Newt's neck slides up into his hair, the soft strands slipping through Thomas's fingers.

His other hand trails down Newt's spine, only stopping to tease the waistband of Newt's boxers. He slips his hand beneath the thin material to cup the swell of his ass.

Thomas thrusts his hips up, using his hand and pushing Newt's down to meet his.

Newt hisses out a sharp breath at the friction. He hitches his leg over Thomas's to properly align their hips.

Suddenly, it just isn't enough.

Thomas squirms, skin damp with sweat and erection straining as he presses up.

"All right there, Tommy?"

Thomas doesn't answer. He slides his hand down, fingertips pressing against Newt's hip.

"Shuck," Newt gasps out.

Thomas brings both hands to Newt's hips, pulling at the elastic band of his boxers and shoving them down his thighs.

Newt tugs them the rest of the way off, and he's just as soon freeing Thomas of his own underwear.

Newt sits back on Thomas's thighs, straddling his legs. He hovers over him.

Thomas leans up. His fingers press into Newt's shoulder, hard enough to leave bruises. His mouth finds the sharp jut of Newt's collarbone, and he finally does what he's been yearning to do.

He dips his tongue into the hollow of Newt's throat, kissing and licking away a droplet of water that has long since vanished.

Thomas moves his mouth. Newt's pulse jumps beneath his lips. His grip tightens on Thomas's sides.

Thomas doesn't even recall Newt moving his hands.

"Thomas, lay down. Lay down," Newt says, his voice rough and throaty. It's an order, not a request, and the tone of authority sends a white-hot bolt of lust down Thomas's spine.

The second Thomas's back hits the sleeping bag, Newt is on top of him. His forehead drops to Thomas's shoulder and he rests his flat palm against Thomas's chest. He drags down, nothing slow or teasing about it, and he doesn't hesitate to curl his fingers around Thomas's dick.

It's been so long since he's had the opportunity to do this, even by himself. So long that the very first touch of Newt's hand almost sends him over the edge.

He manages to reel himself in, enough to reach down palm at Newt's own erection.

Newt gasps and shifts, pressing his face against Thomas's neck and licking, sucking, mouthing at whatever skin he can get his lips on. His hips lower and their knuckles brush together as Newt starts to move his hand.

Thomas immediately pulls his hand back from Newt's dick, only to receive a huff and sharp, punishing nip of protest to the side of his neck.

He lines their hips up, and it's then that Newt seems to get the idea. He lets go of Thomas's dick, a hand darting up to tug at Thomas's hair, and he grinds down. They rub against each other deliciously, skin against skin, and Thomas has to bite his lower lip to hold in the moan that threatens to spill from his lips.

The rhythm is faltering and rushed, but with the pressure and the friction, it takes Thomas almost no time at all to feel his orgasm building.

"Oh _fuck_ ," he groans, "fuck, I can't—"

A well-timed, sharp pull of his hair is what ends it all.

The pleasure washes over him in waves. His nails dig into the skin of Newt's back, scratching at his shoulders as he arches up into him. Newt's breath hitches and he comes not long after, a string of curses flying from his lips in an accent so thick, Thomas can hardly understand him.

Newt slumps against him.

They lie there in completely silence, aside from their heavy breathing.

They're both sweaty and sticky and gross, and Thomas can't help but scrunch up his nose at the thought of it drying to his skin. He grunts, taps at Newt's arm.

"Get off," he huffs. Newt promptly rolls off of him and back onto his own sleeping bag. Thomas ends up using the ratty old blanket to clean up the mess. It's too hot at night to sleep under it anyway. And there's so many holes in the thing, it doesn't serve its purpose all that well in the first place.

Thomas balls the blanket up and drops it into Newt's lap once he's done using it. He manages to find his boxers in the dim light, and he realizes that the sun must be rising.

He pulls his boxers on, then his jeans. He rummages around for his shirt and tugs that on as well, but he opts to leave off the shoes and socks.

"You coming?" Thomas asks once he's dressed, turning around to face Newt. He clears his throat in an attempt to get rid of the raspiness.

Newt is in the process of looking for something, clad in only his underwear. "Yeah, I'll, uh, meet you out there in a minute."

Thomas eyes him, but Newt seems to feel his gaze. He ducks his head, hair hanging down to hide his face, and Thomas shifts his weight between his feet in hesitation.

"Are you—"

"I'm fine," Newt says sharply. He lifts his head to meet Thomas's gaze. His expression gives away nothing but slight irritation, and Thomas nods slowly.

"Okay," he says, eyes darting over Newt's face in search for something.

What he's looking for, he doesn't know.

Newt huffs and looks away. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and drums his fingers against his knee, then brings his hands back down to rummage through his bag.

Thomas hesitates.

Newt sighs. He stops what he's doing and leans back onto his palms. He quirks an eyebrow at Thomas.

"Well? What are you starin' at, then?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it," Thomas says and turns around to fumble for the zipper on the tent. He steps outside, but in his haste, his foot catches on the lip of the tent and he stumbles forward, throwing his arms out and barely catching his balance.

Newt bursts into laughter behind him.

"Can't bloody walk that well, can ya?" he chortles.

Thomas shakes his head and smiles.

A cool, almost cold breeze sweeps over him as he walks to the nearest picnic table.

 _It's gonna start getting colder before too long. And once_ _that happens, there's no way we can stay here in tents._

His stomach growls the second he sits down. He gives himself a moment, then stands again. His feet immediately take him in the direction of the camper they’re using for food storage.

“Thomas! You’re up early.” Jorge sounds incredibly pleased. He walks over, smacks Thomas on the back. “How’re you feeling, _hermano_?”

Thomas frowns, confused. “I, uh…fine?”

Jorge raises his eyebrows. “Really? No headache or anything? You must be one lucky guy.”

 _Oh_. Last night. The drinking.

As if summoned, the memories come rushing back, along with a small throb behind his right eye. He blinks.

“I guess so,” he says. A thought strikes him, and he contemplates for a moment. “Hey Jorge?”

“What’s up, _chico_?”

Thomas clears his throat. “Do you think maybe we should go on a supply run soon? I mean, it’s been a few weeks, and nothing’s happened, so…”

Jorge nods, an odd smile coming to his lips. “I was beginning to think the same thing. Would you like me to talk to Minho about it?”

“No, I can, it’s fine,” Thomas says. “I just, y’know, figured… I mean, we’ll have to eventually. It’s probably best to make a trip sooner rather than waiting any longer. Plus, it's gonna start getting colder soon. Once that happens, there's honestly no way we can stay here. I think maybe we should take as many people as we can to get supplies, then try to find a new place to stay.”

Jorge’s smile stretches into a grin. “That’s a good call. I’ll back whatever decisions you make. I don’t care what the others might have to say. It’s pretty obvious that you’re the leader here now.”

Thomas is struck by bewilderment, as well as a quick flash of panic. _Since when?_

“I, uh…okay,” he says lamely. Jorge chuckles, slaps him on the back once more, and walks off in the opposite direction.

Thomas stands there for a long while, until his stomach finally demands that he get something to eat.

He exits the camper chomping down on two graham crackers with peanut butter smeared between them. It leaves his throat tacky, and he pauses when he comes to the realization that he has to return to the tent to get his water bottle.

 _What if he brings it up?_ Thomas thinks. _What if he regrets it? What if he refuses to talk to me? What if he—_

Thomas huffs, angry with himself. He shutters off his train of thought and forces his feet to move. Once he’s in motion, it’s easier. The door of the tent flutters in the breeze, and Thomas ducks right into the tent, mindful not to let his foot catch on the edge again.

“Hey, did you by chance see my ankle brace out there on the table?” Newt asks, the moment Thomas sets foot inside. He’s kneeled on the ground, still sifting through his backpack in the corner of the tent. He’s still only wearing his boxers. Thomas falters, caught off guard by the question.

“Umm, no?” he says.

“Well help me look, then.”

Thomas crouches down to lift the corner of his sleeping bag, peering underneath it.

They turn the tent upside down in their search for the brace. Thomas comes up with nothing, and he sees that Newt hasn’t either.

 “Where did you have it last?” Thomas suggests.

“I can’t bloody remember,” Newt grumbles. “I know I brought it back when we were done swimming, but I swore I threw it in here with your shirt.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Thomas points out, unhelpfully. Annoyance flares up in Newt’s expression.

“I can bloody see that, Thomas,” he says angrily. He mutters something under his breath, too low for Thomas to hear, then abruptly stands. “I’m going to check around the table.”

Thomas opens his mouth to argue that it hadn’t been out there, but the second Newt puts weight on his bad leg, it buckles underneath him. Newt crumbles onto the floor with a sharp cry, hands darting out to clasp around his right ankle.

Thomas is on him in a second.

“Newt!” he says, alarmed, and he kneels down beside him. His hands hover, unsure where to settle.

“Don’t!” Newt barks. He grits his teeth and exhales shakily. “Don’t touch. I’m fine, just gimme a minute.”

Thomas presses his lips together and barely refrains from calling Newt on the obvious lie. He watches Newt in concern.

His forehead in creased in a deep frown, but any other signs of pain have disappeared, and it makes Thomas break a little on the inside that Newt thinks he has to hide it.

“Yeah, okay, I’m fine,” Newt says. He presses his fingers into the skin just above his ankle, rubbing gingerly. He glances up at Thomas, then raises his arms up. “Here, help me up.”

Thomas grabs him by the biceps and pulls him up. He ends up bearing the majority of Newt’s weight. Once standing, Newt leans heavily against him, and Thomas moves an arm around his back to support him better.

“You good?” Thomas asks, eyeing him.

“Yep, fine,” Newt says. He makes no attempt to remove himself from where he’s plastered against Thomas’s side.

“Okay…” Thomas says slowly. Newt clears his throat and shifts off of Thomas. Though both feet are on the ground, he still leans to the left, all of his weight is centered over his good leg. Thomas doesn’t move his arm from where it’s wrapped around him.

It’s Thomas’s tight hold on him that keeps Newt from falling a second time when he tries to walk. His leg gives out, and Thomas hauls him up against his side.

“Oh fuck,” Newt gasps. He trembles so violently that Thomas’s arm shakes with him.

“Here, how about you stay here, and I go—”

“No!” Newt snaps. “I’m fine, I can…just let me…”

Newt makes a distressed noise and his face scrunches up into an expression so miserable, it makes Thomas’s heart hurt.

 _You don’t have to be strong all the time._ That’s what Newt had said to him. Thomas has the burning urge to repeat the words back to him, but he knows better.

“Hey,” he says, making his voice soft. “How about I help you out there, we have you sit at the picnic table, and I go get Clint? See if he knows where your brace is?”

Newt doesn’t look happy at the suggestion.

“I can walk myself,” he mutters under his breath. Thomas can’t keep his mouth shut this time.

“ _Bullshit_ ,” he says immediately. “I don't know what happened that it’s hurting so bad, but even I know that it’s worse than you’re letting on. Let me _help_ you.”

Newt goes quiet.

“Okay?” Thomas says.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Greenie,” Newt whispers, even as he snakes an arm around Thomas for added support and leans against him even more.

Thomas steps forward, takes most of Newt’s weight as he tries a third time to get his leg to support him. He doesn’t fall this time, but he does make a choked noise in the back of his throat and tighten his grip around Thomas’s waist.

“Aren’t you supposed to stop calling me that?” Thomas says, in an attempt to get Newt’s mind off the pain. He takes another step, hauling Newt with him.

“What?” Newt says breathily. His voice steadies. “What are you talking about?”

“‘Greenie’,” Thomas says. “That’s what you call the newbies.”

Newt hops forward. He no longer even attempts to bear weight on his right leg.

“Yeah, and you’re still a newbie,” Newt says.

“I’ve been a part of this group for, like, a month and a half now?” It’s just a guess, but it seems about right.

“Somethin’ like that,” Newt agrees. “Gally keeps track of the days, why don’t you go ask him?”

They have to turn sideways to get through the tent flap. Thomas goes first and drags Newt out after him. He’s extra careful not to catch his foot on the edge.

“But still, after that much time, I’m not new anymore,” Thomas argues. Once Newt has gotten over the lip of the tent, Thomas raises his head to look around the camp. Jorge is stoking a small fire, Frypan is presumably boiling water, Gally is clumsily attempting to shuffle the deck of cards, and everyone else must still be sleeping.

“Still the newest newbie, though,” Newt points out.

“Okay, but I prefer ‘Tommy’ to ‘Greenie’ any day.”

For the first time since the sun has risen, Newt’s lips curve into a small smile.

“Okay, Tommy,” he says.

They fall silent. The rest of the journey to the picnic table is slow and filled with sharp gasps of pain, despite the table only being a few yards away from their tent. Once they get there, Newt practically falls onto the wooden bench, chest heaving and cheeks bright red. A bead of sweat trickles down from his hairline.

“I’m gonna go get Clint, okay?” Thomas says. Newt waves him off, dismissing him, and pulls his leg up onto the bench with him, straightening it out. He’s only in his boxers. Because he’s not wearing pants, his leg is on fully display.

There’s a deep purple bruising around his ankle that is alarming. Though his shin looks fine, the bruises return at Newt’s knee, dark and painful even just to look at.

Thomas runs over to Gally, the nearest person to them. “Hey, you shared a tent with Clint last night, right?”

Gally’s face is a look of open surprise, though it quickly twists into confusion. “Uh, yeah?”

“Which tent?”

Gally points to a small orange one, not too far away from Thomas’s and Newt’s blue one.

“Okay,” Thomas rushes out, “thanks.”

He jogs over to the tent.

“Hey, Clint, you up?” he calls. There’s a faint rustling from inside, then the flap falls open as Clint unzips the tent from the inside.

“Was just about to come out. What’s up?”

“Newt hurt his leg, and we couldn’t find his ankle brace,” Thomas explains.

Clint gives him a look. “Well, the brace is in the med camper. I put it in there yesterday, along with the alcohol, because I found it lying on the ground beneath one of the tables.”

“Okay. Can you go look at Newt while I go get it?”

Clint furrows his brow. “What exactly did he do to hurt it?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas says truthfully. The corner of Clint’s mouth twitches, and he gives him a disbelieving look.

“I don’t!”

Except maybe he does.

Thomas’s cheeks explode bright red in embarrassment. “Well, I mean, I don’t think—”

Clint laughs and shakes his head. “Go on, then, go get the brace.”

Thomas ducks his head and races off toward the medical camper, thoughts going a mile a minute.

_Shit, is that really why his leg’s hurt so bad? Oh my god, that’s all my fault. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—_

“Oh my god,” Thomas says. He yanks open the door of the camper and peers inside. Sure enough, there’s the brace, lying right on the sheets of the bed. Thomas picks the thing up and hesitates.

_Don’t be such a baby, his leg will be fine._

And, truthfully, Newt hadn’t shown any sign of pain while they’d been…

_But it was dark, I could’ve easily missed it._

Thomas paces, berating himself for allowing anything to happen in the first place.

The only problem is, he can’t decide whether he regrets it or not.

 _But was it just a one-time thing, or— Do I_ like _Newt?_

Thomas has no clue where the thought comes from. He freezes so suddenly that he almost trips over thin air.

Then everything clicks.

“Oh my god, I do,” he says. He’s sure of it. Minho’s talk to him a few weeks ago finally makes sense.

Thomas doesn’t know what to do with this new information. Does he tell him? Hide it? Pretend nothing happened? Bring up what they did?

Suddenly, there’s another question even more pressing in its concern.

_Does Newt like me, too?_

Thomas doesn’t know. But surely he must, even if only subconsciously? His dream last night is a pretty strong indicator that he does.

Still, Thomas can’t be sure whether all of the things that he’s piecing together are just wishful thinking or not.

“Thomas! What’s taking you so long?” Clint’s annoyed shout can be heard even through the door of the camper, and Thomas takes a moment to collect himself before pushing the door open and trudging back outside.

“Sorry, got distracted,” Thomas mumbles once he reaches Newt and Clint. He tosses the brace onto the table and hops up to sit. “How’s his leg?”

“That’s the thing, it’s not healed from the original injury. Odds are, it will never heal completely,” Clint says. He fixes Newt with a hard stare, as though he’s told him this before. He turns his gaze to Thomas. “He just worked it too hard, strained a few muscles. Probably hurts pretty bad, but he’ll be fine in a few days.”

“I didn’t think about it, okay?” Newt huffs. He gestures a hand to Thomas, whose heart jolts. “But Tommy said he didn’t know how to swim, so I thought I’d teach him.”

“You know that’s hell on your leg,” Clint argues. “It’s good to work the muscles, but you went _way_ overboard.”

Newt shifts and shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, well…”

Clint just shakes his head. “Newt. Next time it starts hurting, take a seat and don’t keep using it.”

“Sure,” Newt says dismissively, and Clint’s eyes narrow in anger.

“I’m serious. Do you know how difficult it was to even fix it up this much? It’s a miracle you can even  _walk_.”

“I’m well aware, thanks,” Newt snaps.

“Then lay off,” Clint fires back. He shakes his head and storms off toward Jorge and Frypan by the fire.

Newt mutters something below his breath, and Thomas turns back to look at him. He catches Newt’s eye, but the blond quickly fixes his gaze to the ground.

Thomas slides off of the table and moves to sit next to him. Newt doesn’t look up.

As such, Thomas doesn’t expect him to talk.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I broke my leg?”

Thomas opens his mouth to answer, but Newt plows on, his tone oddly flat.

“It was a few months after everything all went to shit. Minho and I had already joined up with Alby by then, and it was us and few others, Clint and Jeff and Gally included. At that point, all of us went on supply runs, in rotations. One person a day. We never went in groups.

“And one day, it was my turn, just like normal,” Newt continues. “I woke up early and went into town, but this time, I didn’t bring anything with me. I spent the day looking for the tallest building I could find that _wasn’t_ infested with Cranks. I think it might’ve been an apartment complex, but I don’t really remember.

“I climbed the fire escape up a few stories and pitched myself off. Alby found me before the Cranks did, dragged me back to camp. I broke my leg, busted my ankle, and I twisted my knee pretty bad. Minho ended up going missing for a month on a run to find real medical supplies to fix me up, and since then, we’ve always done everything in pairs.”

Thomas sits. “Why are you telling me this?” he finally manages.

Newt shrugs. “Figured it’s about time you knew. Figured you ought to know, before… Well, anyways, that’s not important.”

Thomas opens his mouth, but Minho’s loud, overdramatic moan rings through the campsite, getting Newt’s attention. Thomas just stares at Newt’s turned head and wonders, _why?_

Minho trudges over to the table and sits down on the ground in front of Thomas and Newt. He groans again, holding his head.

Newt laughs at his distress. “Drink too much last night, I take it? Weren’t you the one tellin’ everybody that you could outdrink them?”

“I did, though!” Minho exclaims, then winces. “Which, honestly, you should be more impressed with me. You know that was my first time drinking, Newt.”

“That explains a lot,” Thomas snorts. Minho scowls at him.

“Shut up, Thomas.”

He laughs instead. Then remembers something.

"Oh, hey, Minho?"

"What?" Minho grumbles.

"I spoke to Jorge, and we both agreed that it would be smart to go on a supply run soon. And to take as many people as we can."

Minho's face scrunches up. "Uh, why?"

"Because it's going to start getting colder soon. Once that happens, there's just no way we can stay here. The tents won't be enough to keep us from freezing."

Minho squints up at Thomas, then looks at Newt. He shrugs. "Shank's got a point."

"Okay, but if you're doing the supply run, we keep two people here at camp," Newt says. "Y'know, just in case…"

 _Just in case Chuck comes back_ , Thomas thinks.

"Sounds good," he agrees. He feels the ball of stress in his stomach loosen. Now they have a plan, and now Thomas has something to do besides sit around and mope and  _think_. Clearly he's doing that too much.

"So, when do we go, boss?" Minho asks him. Thomas tenses at Minho's words. 

_"It’s pretty obvious that you’re the leader here now."_

"Tomorrow. We go tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO, this does NOT mean the boys are together. The way I see it, they're both scared, lonely, and desperate for comfort. It's less emotionally involved than it is a desperate need for release.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning of the end.

He jolts awake, with the immediate feeling that something’s wrong. Newt is nowhere to be seen, though that comes as no surprise, as he’d slept in the medical camper last night. Thomas slips into his jeans and pulls on his shirt as fast as possible, and he fumbles with the zipper on the tent.

He trips on the edge in his haste.

A quiet snort catches his attention, and he looks up to see Newt lounging at the picnic table, pausing in a game of solitaire in favor of grinning at Thomas.

“That’s, what, the fourth time now?” he says. Thomas slowly straightens up and looks around. It’s overcast, and the sun is completely hidden behind the clouds. The sky is slate grey, so much so that it looks more like a ceiling than the sky.

Thomas wonders if it’s going to rain again soon.

“Is everyone still asleep?” he asks. Despite the odd weather, the sun has clearly already risen, and they should’ve all left for the supply run by now. Now, they’re probably running about an hour or two behind, which gives them less time to look around.

“No,” Newt answers. Then completely changes the subject. “C’mere and play a card game with me. We can play War. Or Speed. Whichever one.”

Thomas walks over, puzzled, and sits across from him. He cranes his neck around the campsite. “If everyone’s not asleep, where are they?”

Something flickers over Newt’s face, so fast that Thomas would’ve missed it, had he not been staring at him. The unsettled feeling that woke him up returns.

“Newt?” he says.

Newt huffs a heavy sigh and gathers up the cards lying on the table. He takes his time tucking them back into the box before finally looking up at Thomas. He points a finger at him. “First thing’s first, you’re not allowed to get mad.”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

Newt hesitates, then shrugs. “Well, even you agreed that we should have two people stay back at camp.”

Thomas’s jaw drops in disbelief. Sure, he might’ve meant Newt should be one of the people who stayed back, but _himself_?

“Are you— what the _fuck_.”

Newt chews at his lip. “You wouldn’t wake up. Minho tried, but—”

“That’s bullshit,” Thomas says. He’s a light sleeper. If they’d tried to wake him up, _he would have woken up_. They left him here intentionally.

Newt sighs, rubs at his eyes. “Okay, look, me and Minho talked, all right? We both agreed that it was smarter that you stay here, in case—”

“In case what?” Thomas says angrily.

Newt scowls at him. “In case they found something!” he snaps. “In case—”

“‘Found something’?” Thomas echoes, rhetorically. “What—”

“Would you stop interrupting me!” Newt yells. The anger leaves him and he visibly deflates. “I understand that you’re mad, but Minho and I agreed that it was the smartest thing to do. If they happened across Chuck or Alby as Cranks, what would you have done?”

Thomas pinches his lips together. His hands tremble with suppressed anger. It takes him two seconds to decide what to do.

He tromps back to the tent and falls to his knees. He drags his backpack up to him and rummages around inside, checking that he has what he needs. Knife, check. Both handguns, check. A small package of crackers, check. Flashlight, check. Chuck’s figurine...

Thomas hesitates, but pulls the hunk of wood out of his pocket to look at it for a long moment. It’s too valuable to lose, but on the off chance that he can’t return for it, he can’t bear the thought of leaving it in the tent. As such, he tucks it back into his pocket, not trusting it in his bag. After a brief pause, he takes his revolver out of the bag and hides it in the corner of the tent, dropping the pillow on top of it. There’s really no point in taking both handguns, after all.

He also takes out all of his journals, except for the one he’s currently using, and he stores them under the pillow next to the gun. When reaching for the last notebook, his fingers brush something at the bottom of his bag.

Thomas furrows his brow and curls his fingers around the object. He flips over his hand and stares at the thing resting in his palm.

The keychain. The stupid Michigan keychain that Newt had grabbed at the store weeks ago. Thomas forgot he’d grabbed it and kept it.

He turns it over in his palm. It’s a cheap keychain. One of those solar-powered ones that flash on and off with a word or phrase once the sun hits them. He’s seen them before at various gas stations and stores. But with the lack of adequate sunlight in the store and in the tent now, the display is dark and Thomas has no clue what the word or name is supposed to be. He assumes it says _Michigan_.

Thomas looks at it for a long time.

He slips it into his front pocket, then stands.

 _It’ll be smart to bring some sort of bandages,_ he thinks. _Just in case_.

He slings his bag over one shoulder and exits the tent, zipping it shut behind him. He makes it to the med camper, stuffing a package of bandages in his bag, then steps back outside, holding his bag by the strap. Standing outside, Newt is waiting to intercept him, hands on his sides and popping a hip out. He quirks an eyebrow at Thomas.

“Where do you think you’re going, then?”

Thomas seals the door with his free hand. “I’m going after them.”

Newt’s expression sobers, and his light tone drops into something more serious. “Like hell you are.”

Thomas shakes his head and begins walking, pushing past Newt, shouldering him aside. Thomas hears him stumble and feels a fleeting wave of guilt, but before he can turn around to apologize, Newt grabs him by the wrist, yanking him back sharply. The backpack Thomas is holding drops to his feet. He looks up at Newt and glares, guilt forgotten.

“I’m going,” he insists.

“What about ‘no one gets left alone’?” Newt asks pointedly. “We have everyone room together and do runs together _for a reason_. We literally went over this yesterday.”

“I’ll meet up with them,” Thomas says, stubborn.

Newt stares at him, then shakes his head in utter disbelief.

“No,” he says simply. “You’re staying here, until they get back.”

Thomas is suddenly furious. He narrows his eyes and attempts, for a second time, to shove past Newt. Newt’s grip on his wrist tightens, to the point of pain, and he tugs him back.

Thomas snaps. He rips his arm free from Newt’s grip and raises his hands to push him. Newt blocks him. He grabs Thomas’s biceps and twists. Newt slams him into the side of the camper. Thomas winces as his back collides with the metal, and for a brief moment, he’s reminded of his scuffle with Aris, almost two months ago.

Newt’s stronger than he looks, even with a bum leg. He pins Thomas to the side of the camper with surprising ease.

Thomas’s heart pounds, and he feels his face begin to redden in anger.

“I _have_ to go!” he shouts. “I can’t just let them die when I can do something to help! I can’t risk it.”

Newt leans in, getting up in his face. He’s seething. “You think this is easy for me? Sitting here, not knowing if they’ll make it back? I’ve known them for twice as long as you, longer even! You think I wouldn’t be out there giving my life for _any_ of them right now?”

His expression eases, just slightly, and he leans back out of Thomas’s personal space. “We all have our roles to play.”

Thomas clenches his jaw. “Newt, I— you don’t get it. I _have_ to do this. I can’t lose anyone else.”

He _can’t_.

“Then...then I’m going with you,” Newt says.

“No. No, absolutely not,” Thomas answers, without hesitation. Newt’s grip on his arms tightens.

“If you’re going, I’m going,” he says harshly.

“ _No_ ,” Thomas snaps.

Newt’s expression darkens into a look of rage. The tension between them crackles. “And why bloody not? You think you can just run off and—”

The words leave Thomas’s mouth before he even has the time to think about them.

“Because I can’t lose you!” His voice trembles, then softens into something like a whisper. “Don’t you get that? I _can’t_ lose you.”

Thomas allows his head to fall back against the camper with a dull _thump_.

Newt’s grip loosens and he stares at him. His expression is the same stricken, overwhelmed look that it had been two nights ago.

Thomas can barely stand to see it. He thinks maybe he should apologize.

“Newt—”

His mouth is just moving to form the words when Newt’s hands slide down to grab two fistfuls of Thomas’s shirt and he hauls him forward, crashing their mouths together.

Thomas is struck with the realization that they never _once_ kissed the other night. He would have remembered if they had.

It’s slow, tentative. Pleading. Newt shudders against him, and Thomas brings his hands up to Newt’s waist to steady him. Newt presses in close, caging Thomas in against the camper, and a wrecked, desperate sound pulls from Thomas's throat.

Newt slowly draws away. He rests his forehead against Thomas’s, whose eyes remain shut.

“And I can’t lose _you_ , Tommy. You oblivious, self-sacrificing shank.”

Thomas’s heart leaps in his chest, and he trembles.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, lips brushing against Newt’s. “But I _need_ to do this.”

_And I need you to understand._

Newt pulls away, taking his warmth with him. Thomas opens his eyes. Newt is looking at him, eyes darting around his face.

Their eyes lock. Then Newt nods, slowly.

“Okay. But I _am_ coming.”

Thomas exhales, a small sigh.

“But...” He searches for an argument. “But what about your leg?”

“My buggin’ leg is fine,” Newt snaps, a bit of the earlier anger returning. His expression is set.

“Newt, I don’t think—”

“Where you go, I go,” Newt says. Thomas bites his lip.

“Newt—”

“Where you go, I go.” He says it with such a firm authority, Thomas can’t bring himself to argue. He hesitates, then nods.

“Okay. Where I go, you go.”

* * *

The walk is a long one.

It takes the usual half an hour for them to pass the rusted silver truck that marks the halfway point. That’s about when Thomas notices that they’re steadily slowing down, and Newt’s limp is steadily becoming more pronounced in the way he walks.

Newt doesn't say a word. For a long time, neither does Thomas.

He glances at Newt, and the suggestion that has been on the tip of his tongue for the past fifteen minutes finally slips past his lips.

“Wanna take a break?”

“I’m fine,” Newt says without hesitation, as if he'd been expecting the question. Sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead, and a muscle in his jaw tightens.

“I know you are,” Thomas says slowly, “but it’s hot out and I’m getting tired. And we don’t have to take too long. Just...like five minutes, tops.”

Newt stares at him, the skin between his eyebrows crinkling as he frowns. Slowly, the suspicion on his face eases, and nods.

They sit, side-by-side in the middle of the road, and take slow sips from their water bottles.

Thomas finds himself counting the seconds.

Once ten minutes go by with neither of them making an effort to get back on their feet, Thomas heaves a sigh and uses his hands to push himself to his feet.

“Come on,” he says, offering a hand to Newt, “we should keep going.”

Newt caps his water bottle and tucks it into his bag, taking his sweet time. He eyes Thomas's hand, lips pressed together as though he's tempted to ignore the offer entirely.

Thomas, fed up with the ‘constantly having to be strong’ bullshit, grabs Newt under the arm and yanks him to his feet. Newt curses, almost losing his footing. Once he's steady, he looks at Thomas.

His expression is more surprised than angry, and Thomas takes his opportunity to speak before that can change.

“You can stop with the whole…” Thomas gestures to him, “whatever this is you're doing. I _know_ your ankle is killing you. You don't have to hide it. That's fucking pointless, and it’s not helping anyone. What you need to do is let us _help_ you, goddamn it.”

Newt gapes at him, eyebrows creeping up his forehead. He looks startled, like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck.

He doesn't speak, and that freaks Thomas out more than anything.

“What?” Thomas finally says.

Newt shakes his head slowly. “You sure don't beat around the bush, do ya?”

“Uh…” He has no idea how to reply to that.

Newt shakes his head again, more firmly this time. “It's fine. I'm just not used to that kind of honesty. Even Minho isn't that blunt about it.”

“I, uh...sorry?”

“Don't be sorry, shank. You're right, anyway,” Newt says. His mouth curls downward, like he doesn't agree with himself, but it soon becomes a half-smile directed at Thomas. He nudges his shoulder.

“C’mon, then.” His smile turns cheeky. “We ought to get a move on, don't you think?”

Thomas stares at him, tongue darting out over his cracked lips.

“I think we can wait a few more minutes?” he suggests. Newt’s frown returns at once.

“What for? We just stood up.”

Thomas takes two steps. Two steps, and he's nearly standing on Newt’s toes he's so close to him.

Newt’s breath hitches.

Thomas cups his jaw and pulls him down.

A few minutes turns into several, but neither of them are counting.

* * *

When they arrive at the gas station and duck behind the Toyota, there's no sign of the others.

Not that Thomas particularly expected there to be, but he still brings his hand up to bite at his nails anxiously.

Newt swats at his hand. “Stop that. That's a terrible habit to get into.”

“Sorry, mom,” Thomas mutters. Newt shoots him a dark look, and Thomas returns it with a grin.

Thomas rocks up onto the tips of his toes and presses a fleeting kiss to his lips.

Newt blinks.

“Looking for them is gonna be pointless. It's too big of a town, we'd never find them,” Thomas says. He contemplates. “Since they're not here, how about we do some searching of our own? I mean, we've both got backpacks.”

Newt blinks.

A smile slowly cuts across his lips.

“You bloody twat.” He grabs Thomas by the collar and pulls him into a proper kiss.

Only the distance screech of a Crank separates them.

Thomas sobers, reminds himself there's actual work to be done. And that neither of them are truly safe where they are.

When Thomas suggests they search some of the vehicles clogging up the road, rather than the stores, he doesn’t expect Newt to agree as readily as he does, nor does he expect to find much in terms of usefulness.

But he was _wrong_.

Thomas and Newt find an assortment of odd knickknacks and items, some practical and others, not so much.

They come up with a surprising amount of unopened food, a nearly full case of water bottles, another deck of cards (with a box of poker chips to accompany it), a whole backpack full of supplies, a half pack of matches, more jumper cables, antifreeze, a short-handled ice scraper, and a few other odds and ends.

It’s worth the amount of bodies they have to maneuver around.

They work together to move the supplies back to the gas station, hiding them in the Toyota.

Thomas grunts under the weight of the bag on his back and a duffle bag hanging from his shoulder. Newt is lugging his own backpack and two others, one on either arm.

Thomas worries for his leg, but even he can't deny that Newt is stronger than he looks.

“You’re stronger than you look.”

Newt snorts a laugh.

“Thanks, Tommy. I ‘bout have to be in this day and age,” he says. He looks towards the gas station and the lonely Toyota, about half a mile up the road but still within sight. “We should start bringing this stuff back.”

Thomas shakes his head.

"No, just one more,” he disagrees. He gestures to a blue Chevy with only a few dents, stalled in the center of the road.

“Look, let’s check that one.”

Newt grudgingly agrees and they walk over towards the blue car. The windows are tinted, to the point where it’s difficult for Thomas to see inside. He slings his pack off his shoulder and sets it on the ground. The duffle follows soon after.

“This is the last one, I promise.”

Newt rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“Whatever you say, mate,” he says, setting his bags on the ground next to Thomas’s.

Thomas nods and tests the passenger side door handle. This one, like most of the others, is unlocked. With a small grin, Thomas swings the door wide and peers in.

His jaw drops.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” he says.

“What? What is it?” Newt asks, his light tone immediately reverting to concerned and tense. Thomas hears him fumble for his gun.

“Newt, there’s four or five bags in here. _Full_ bags,” Thomas says, leaning further into the car to get a look in the back. He crinkles his nose.

“And a body,” he adds. It isn’t nearly as bad as some of the others, though. In fact, this one shows no signs of damage at all, which Thomas is absurdly thankful for.

He leans in and looks around the cab of the car, debating on what to go for first.

A sharp intake of breath behind him, and Thomas shakes his head, grinning, and slowly withdraws from the vehicle.

“Yeah, we just hit the _jackpot_. Minho’s gonna _flip_ when—”

He turns around with every intention to kiss Newt, only to meet eyes wide with barely-suppressed terror.

Thomas's heart stops.

There's a gun. A pistol.

The muzzle is snug against Newt’s temple.

There's a man standing behind Newt. His expression is solid stone, hard and unyielding.

His arm is around Newt’s throat.

He's holding a gun to Newt’s head. A pistol.

A choked noise escapes Thomas's lips.

“N—”

_No._

_Newt._

Thomas's fingers twitch towards his waistband.

The man tightens his hold around Newt’s throat.

This time, Newt is the one making a choked noise, something caught between a yelp and a moan. His hands dart up to claw at the man’s forearm.

Thomas drops his hand back down to his side. He grits his teeth. A muscle in his jaw flutters.

He looks at Newt.

He looks at Newt’s eyes, his lips, his trembling hands. Then his eyes again.

Thomas has never seen him look so scared.

“Tommy!”

It's a cry of pure panic. His voice is raw.

“ _Behind you_!”

A scream this time.

Thomas whirls around, but he's unconscious before he can even see his attacker.

* * *

He wakes up in a haze of pain.

It's the only thing he's aware of.

His head pounds, each throb a stabbing pain akin to the feeling of a knife hammering into the base of his skull and _twisting_.

The pain radiates. Blistering, white-hot _pain_ that lances down his neck and settles between his shoulder blades.

Each throb is a bolt of lightning. _Complete agony_. The blood pulsing in his ears is the thunder.

Consciousness evades him.

* * *

The pain recedes like the tide.

But it always comes crashing back over the shore.

* * *

This time when he wakes up — the fourth time? Fifth? — something is different.

Voices cut through the throbbing in his head. The pain intensifies, then settles back into something near manageable.

Voices. Right.

“He's _still_ not awake? Did you kill him?”

“Shut the hell up. I know what I'm doing.”

He turns his head.

The pain seizes over him, deafening, blinding, suffocating.

Passing out is a relief.

* * *

_My name is Thomas._

And—

_Holy fuck my head hurts._

The two thoughts play on an endless loop.

* * *

Someone's crying.

He's turning his head towards the sound before he can make himself stop.

He braces for agony.

It hits, washes over him in a wave.

But he doesn’t drown.

_Someone taught me how to swim._

Someone's crying.

Thomas forces his eyes open. He blinks once. Twice.

“N—”

_No._

_Newt._

Thomas swallows.

“Newt.”

His voice is nothing more than a rusty croak, but it works.

The muffled cries cut off with a gasping hiccup of breath.

Shoes scuff against cement, and Newt is there.

He looks awful.

“You look awful.”

Newt makes a noise. Thomas can't tell whether it's a sob or a laugh, but when Newt grabs his hand, he knows Newt does it with no intention of letting go.

* * *

Thomas doesn't know how much time has passed before he's able to sit up and move, to rotate his neck without the pain crippling him.

He doesn't know, and he doesn't ask.

He thinks Newt doesn't know either.

Thomas looks over, neck stiff, always fucking stiff, and sees Newt biting at his thumbnail.

Thomas swats his hand away from his mouth.

When Newt scowls at him, Thomas carefully raises his shoulders in a shrug.

“Bad habit.”

Newt cracks a smile, and it’s easily the brightest thing in their grimy little cell.

* * *

The next day, they're moved to a new room entirely.

Thomas goes willingly enough, allows himself to be shoved into a much smaller cell.

Until he sees them locking the door with Newt on the other side.

He screams himself hoarse, and it gets to the point where the bandits literally just say “fuck it” and toss Newt into the cell with him.

Thomas is trembling long after they leave. So is Newt.

* * *

The day the guards bring Chuck in is the day they escape.

Thomas stares at the boy for a long time. He's skinnier than Thomas has ever seen him, the clothes hanging off his frame.

His face is smeared with dirt and dried blood and bruises, his eyes are sunken, and even his curls seem to have lost their life and vibrancy.

But Chuck is still ecstatic to see them, something that he expresses with hitching sobs and a white-knuckled grip on Thomas's hand.

“They…” Chuck hiccups. “I don't know how long I've been here. They k-kept moving me around to different rooms. I just want to go home.”

Thomas doesn't know what Chuck considers a home in this world, but he does know one thing.

He's getting him out of here.

Thomas turns to Newt, slipping a hand into his front pocket to feel the curves of the wooden figurine Chuck gave him some time ago. The guards took their supplies, everything they'd had. Except, for whatever reason, they left Thomas with his hunk of wood and cheap keychain.

He and Newt have gone through heaps of plans, but they've never seen anything through.

“Three?” Thomas suggests. He keeps his voice low.

Newt hesitates. “I don't know, that's risky.”

Thomas brings a hand back rub the back of his neck, pressing his fingers in to relieve the brewing headache. He gets them constantly now.

“Well I don't know what else—”

Shouts. Panicked shouts.

The slap of multiple pairs of feet against concrete.

Then gunshots.

Thomas looks at Newt, hand falling into his lap. “That's new.”

Newt is already peering between the bars.

When the usual guard comes running in, terror etched into her face, Thomas almost laughs.

Then there's a bullet in the guard’s forehead, blood and brain matter exploding all over the wall, and the urge to laugh vanishes.

Chuck screams. Thomas stands.

A familiar face steps into the room. And Thomas can't breathe.

He rushes over to the dead guard and kneels down in the pool of blood forming around her, digging through her pockets. The jangle of keys is an unmistakable sound.

Thomas is frozen. He doesn't move when his and Newt’s cell is unlocked, nor does he move when Chuck’s is.

He stares.

Newt takes a step, then realizes Thomas is making no attempt to move. He gives him a quizzical look. His gaze flits between Thomas's and the newcomer’s, who are locked in a dazed staring contest.

“Do you know this guy?” Newt hisses.

He does.

“Hey.” Newt’s palm finds Thomas's jaw and forces his head away, forces his eyes to meet his own.

“You can have your bloody reunion later. For now, we've gotta go,” Newt whispers. Thomas nods, slowly, the world coming back to him.

They have to leave. Now.

Thomas steps out of the cell, but not before clasping Newt’s hand in his own.

He clenches his jaw.

“You're here to get us out?” he asks.

Aris nods, a myriad of emotions flitting over his face.

“We met up with your group. Minho and the others,” he says. Then jerks his head toward the door. “Come on. We can only hold these guys off for so long. And WICKED will be rolling into camp any minute.”

Thomas chokes on a breath. Newt’s grip on his hand tightens.

“WICKED?” Thomas whispers, and it comes out more of a squeak.

Aris bites his lip. Hesitates.

“Okay, look,” he says, running a hand down his face. He looks older than Thomas remembers. “Barkley, one of the leaders of this camp, contacted WICKED as soon as you were brought in, Thomas. They're coming to take you back with them, and I don't think they care much about the lives of everyone else.”

Thomas's throat constricts. For a brief, terrible moment, he's certain he's going to puke.

But he doesn't. He pulls himself together, somehow, and gives Aris a steady nod.

“Okay,” he says, “okay then what's the plan?”

Aris slings his bag off of his shoulders and kneels down to rummage through it. He hands a pistol to him and one to Newt. He gives Chuck a long look before shaking his head.

“You know how to shoot?”

Chuck shakes his head, expression more vulnerable than Thomas has seen in a while.

“If you've got a knife, give it to him,” Thomas orders. He smiles at Chuck. “The kid knows how to use those.”

Aris hands Chuck a dagger and grabs something else from his bag before he zips it up, swinging it back up onto his arms.

He holds the radio up to his mouth and presses the button on the side.

“Hey, Aris here! I found ‘em. Thomas and the Newt guy, and there's another kid here, but I'm bringing him too.”

The reply is almost instantaneous. The voice is a woman’s.

_“Awesome, great job, Aris. Meet us back at Point A?”_

“Yeah. Might take a while. It's total chaos in here.”

_“Be safe.”_

“Will do. See you on the outside, Harriet,” he says, and clips the radio to his belt.

“Okay,” he says, straightening up, “Minho and your group joined up with my people. We knew you guys were here, managed to snag a radio from one of the guys, so we staged a raid before WICKED got here.”

Thomas has no clue what prompted the sudden change of heart with Aris’s loyalty towards WICKED, and he doesn't really care.

“Come on, let’s go,” he says. Thomas grabs his arm before he can make it very far.

He raises his eyebrows in silent question, a small tilt of his head.

_Teresa?_

Aris knows what he's asking. They've always been able to basically read each other's minds.

He presses his lips together. “Thomas, she stayed with WICKED. She said she'd do whatever it took to find a cure. Even if that meant both of us dying.”

Thomas nods. He stares down at the ground for a long moment, attempting to reign in his emotions.

Newt squeezes his hand.

Thomas squeezes back, and breathing is a little bit easier.

His palms are slick with sweat, and he shifts his grip on the gun.

“After you,” he says, motioning to the door. Aris leads, and Chuck follows suit. Thomas and Newt take up the rear.

They exit the crumbling building to utter chaos. People screaming and gunfire and the screeches of fast-approaching Cranks.

“We gotta hurry!” Aris shouts. “We just—”

His voice is drowned out by a much louder yell, one of pure terror.

“ _Berg_!”

Thomas listens.

The familiar sound of blades chopping through the wind is unmistakable. The Berg is flying in _fast_ , and the only group to have access to those is—

“WICKED!” someone cries.

It's mass hysteria as people try to run, scramble for places to hide. No one wants to be taken.

Aris leads them through broken buildings and around clusters of people, trekking the place like a maze.

Thomas is disoriented, but he doesn't release his iron grip on Newt’s hand, even when they start lagging behind.

“Okay,” Aris says, ducking down behind a tall slab of concrete. Chuck joins him, and Thomas and Newt slide in a few seconds later. Chuck is wheezing from the run. Newt is shaking.

“Okay,” Aris says again, setting the gun down and wiping his palms on his jeans. “We’re gonna have to go one at a time through here, or else someone's gonna get shot. It's complete madness, and we're gonna be right in the open.”

Chuck latches onto Thomas's sleeve, and it doesn't take a genius to see that he's terrified.

“Hey, it'll be okay,” Thomas assures. “Aris will go first, okay?”

“Okay,” Chuck whispers. His grip doesn't loosen.

“Just make the run to the store across the street. The houses are pretty tight together after that. From the air, WICKED probably won't even be able to see us,” Aris states, picking up his pistol.

He runs. Thomas waits, heart in his throat, for Aris to drop, but he doesn't. He makes it through the doorway and into the building safely.

He waves them over.

“You good to go?” Thomas asks, looking at Chuck.

The boy tries to smile, but it's more of a grimace than anything.

“Hey, it'll be fine. Just run fast, and don't look back,” Thomas says. Chuck nods, some weird determination flashing in his eyes, and he stands.

Chuck takes off. He runs as fast as his legs can carry him.

It's not fast enough.

Thomas doesn't notice the Crank until it's already on top of Chuck, tackling him to the ground at a lilting run.

Chuck screams. It's a terrible sound.

Thomas pulls his hand from Newt’s and he _runs_. He kicks the Crank as hard as he can, and it sprawls across the pavement a few inches away from Chuck.

Thomas shoots it, then turns around to look at Chuck, panic gnawing at him.

He freezes.

Stares at the bite on the side of his neck.

There's a chunk of flesh missing entirely, and Chuck is making these sounds. Horrible gurgling noises as he presses his hands to the injury.

Chuck’s eyes are glassy when they meet Thomas's. He chokes on his words.

“Thomas…” he wheezes. Blood is pouring everywhere, staining Chuck’s shirt and the pavement. “T-Thomas, I'm sorry.”

Thomas crashes to his knees beside him, ignoring the pain that jolts up his thighs.

“No. No no no,” he says, breath shallow. He stains his hands with Chuck’s blood. “Chuck, hey. Hey, look at me, you're gonna be fine, okay? It's gonna be okay.”

“I'm sorry,” Chuck says again, voice wobbling.

The gunshot is so close it's nearly deafening.

Thomas stares at Chuck.

He stares at blood blossoming from the new injury, changing the color of his shirt. The bullet must've killed him instantly, because Chuck isn't moving.

Someone nudges Thomas with their foot.

“Come on, shank, we don't have much time.”

Gally’s voice is softer than Thomas has ever heard it.

Thomas struggles to his feet, knees and head throbbing in tandem.

His hands are stained red. He doesn't know where his gun went.

He doesn’t care. He wants to beat Gally within an inch of his life.

He curls his hands into fists.

Gally shakes his head, eyes remorseful. “Get mad at me later. For now, we gotta _move_.”

Newt grabs Thomas's wrist and yanks him towards the store. Aris’s face is a shade too pale, and he's talking fast into his walkie-talkie.

“Gally’s here,” he says. “Harriet, the Cranks are coming in. I don't know if we'll be able to get to Point A.”

_“What about Point B? Is that more doable? We can meet you there.”_

“Yeah,” Aris breathes, looking between Gally and Thomas, “yeah, that'll do.”

Newt grabs Thomas's wrists and forces him to wipe his hands on his pants, to wipe the blood off.

“Tommy? Hey,” he says.

Thomas looks at him.

“Just focus on me, yeah?” Newt says. “We still have to get out of here, and you need to be focused.”

“I'm focusing,” Thomas says. His voice cracks.

Newt takes his hand in his own. Thomas doesn't protest.

Newt all but drags him from building to building. WICKED soldiers file past. The air is filled with static from the Launchers.

The gunshots aren't as frequent, but they're far from stopping entirely.

The same goes for the screams.

The four of them — _Aris, Newt, me, and Chuck, no not Chuck, Gally, Chuck is dead_ — race through the streets.

Aris unclips the radio and shouts into it as they run. “Harriet! We're about five minutes out! Be ready for us!”

_“Copy that.”_

They all stop just outside a building.

“This place is brimming with Cranks. Just be careful. Once we're around the building, we're basically at the meeting place,” Aris assures. “We gotta be careful, this place is probably crawling with WICKED soldiers.”

Thomas goes first.

He pushes past Aris, releases Newt’s hand, and creeps to the side of the building, peering around the corner.

_The blood on my hands is almost dried._

The street is littered with bodies. Thomas doesn't look close enough to try to recognize any. He doesn't want to.

He leads the four of them — _not Chuck not Chuck not Chuck_ — through the clusters of living people.

They're halfway down the street when Thomas hears his name being yelled.

He turns in that direction.

A bitter laugh bubbles up in his throat like bile.

It's the bandit.

The one from two months ago.

The one who tried to rape him on a filthy gas station floor.

“Barkley, back off!” Aris yells. Newt stands beside Thomas. He slips their hands together once again.

“I'm turning you lot into WICKED!” Barkley shouts. He waves a pistol of his own in the air. “I was promised some _good shit_ if I did.”

“Like what?” Aris says. He winces at the crack of a gunshot down the street. “What's worth the lives of four kids?”

Barkley’s face darkens. “A cure, goddamn it! A _cure_! I was promised a _cure_!”

“They were lying to you,” Gally calls out. “There is no cure. There will never _be_ a cure.”

Barkley fires a shot right at Gally’s feet.

Gally yelps and jumps, ducking behind Aris and Newt.

Barkley laughs and shakes his head. “I know. I never thought a cure was very realistic, to be honest. But _you_.”

He points at Thomas.

“ _You_ just seem to be the root of it all. Well I tell you what. If I can't have you, why should WICKED?”

He raises his gun.

Newt yells something, attempts to step in front of him, but Thomas tightens his hold on Newt’s hand and yanks him behind him instead, twisting around to shield him from the onslaught of bullets.

Aris screams and grabs Thomas’s wrist, pulling him — and Newt by extension — behind a rusted car.

Gally dives behind the cover with them.

Thomas winces, pressing a hand to his side. He must've caught the rear view mirror when he ducked down, because his side aches.

His shoulder, too.

“Tommy? Tommy, hey, are you…” Newt trails off, and that's when Thomas knows something is wrong.

He forces his eyes open — _when did I close them?_ — and looks at Newt. Newt’s staring at where his hand is clasped against his side.

When Thomas pulls his hand away, blood drips from his fingers.

A sound catches in Newt’s throat, and Thomas looks back up at him, mouth forming words but none escaping past his lips.

Finally, one phrase does.

“He shot me.”

His side.

His shoulder.

The pain explodes through his body all at once, and he can't breathe.

He can't breathe through his screams.

Then he's being laid down, forced onto his back, but he's barely aware of it.

Hands press down, against his side, against his shoulder, attempting to staunch the flow of blood but _it hurt it hurts so bad make it stop please make it stop_.

“Tommy, you've got to look at me,” Newt orders. He sounds distant, and Thomas finds that he doesn't have the energy left to scream anymore, only letting out choked whimpers and moans.

“Tommy, _please_. Please look at me, love.”

Thomas forces his eyes open for a second time.

Newt is leaning over him. He says something else, and Thomas's eyes drop to his lips, entranced at their rapid movement.

Aris is saying something to Gally, but Thomas doesn't catch a word of it.

“Newt,” Thomas says, and brings a hand up.

He leaves a bloody handprint on Newt’s cheek.

“Tommy, just hang on, yeah? We'll get you help. Just hang on.”

Thomas wants to say something, to reassure him that everything will work out, that it'll all be okay.

He passes out instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, guys, then the epilogue!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Bia, or comebacknow, for allowing me to use a few of her OCs in this chapter!
> 
> Also, special thanks to the TMR Discord!! Micky, Anne, Jess, Dreams, Ky, Jo, and El, I love all of you!

The bright light shining through the tent is both disorienting and turning it into a small furnace.

For a long time, he stares up at the ceiling and doesn't move. Doesn't think.

It all comes rushing back anyway, and he's helpless to stop it.

Memories of the camp. Of Aris. Gally. Barkley.

Chuck.

Thomas turns his head, taking in his surroundings.

Newt is nowhere to be seen.

A soft noise claws up from Thomas's throat and pushes past his lips.

He needs him.

He needs to know he made it.

Thomas shifts, pushes himself up with his arms. Pain rips through his shoulder. He ignores it. Then realizes he's not on the ground. He's on a cot.

He swings his feet over the side, waits.

The pain in his side is minimal.

He stands.

A jab of pain ripples across his stomach and up to his chest.

Again, he ignores it.

He shuffles, sees that he's wearing a set of clothes he doesn't recognize.

Scratch that. The pants are definitely familiar. He just can't place where from.

He slips his hands into the front pockets. In his left, his fingers brush against something rough.

He pulls it out and cradles it in his hand.

Chuck’s figurine.

The light wood is stained a rosy color. Thomas can't stand to think what it's from.

He plunges his hand back down into his pocket, and encounters something else.

The solar-powered souvenir. The keychain.

 _Newt’s_ keychain.

The sun shines through the tarpaulin ceiling of the tent right onto the scratched surface, and a name blinks on and off.

It doesn't say _Michigan_.

It says _Thomas_.

He closes his eyes.

Takes a deep, shuddering breath.

He stuffs both objects back into his pocket and raises his head. He notes, with some confusion, that the tent flap is unzipped.

The noise from outside is faint, but it's definitely there. He thinks he knows what it is, but surely that can't be right?

He takes a step. Then another.

He pushes the tent flap back and ducks outside.

The grass is wet and cold under his bare feet.

A strong breeze sweeps the heat away from his skin, and he finds that it's actually much cooler outside.

The air is thick with moisture, and the grass is glittering with dew.

It's early morning.

The ground in front of him is a mixture of dirt and patches of grass, and tents are littered around the area.

It's not the campsite.

This place is different.

Though there aren't as many tents, they're all closer together, and all seem to be in use.

They're in a huge, open field (maybe what used to be a corn field), right on the edge of it and close to the trees. The openness is a bit of a shock.

And he was right about the noise.

It’s music.

The audio is crackly and distant, coming from the other side of the camp. It's nothing like what he used to listen to.

Still, it makes his heart pang with something akin to homesickness.

It reminds him of when Chuck wanted to listen to country music in the van, when they were driving.

Thomas presses his lips together.

Tiny clusters of people — groups of two or three — are standing around the camp, conversing amongst each other.

Thomas's eyes lock with one of them, a blonde stranger.

Her eyes widen in evident shock, and she stops mid-sentence.

She's too far for Thomas to hear, but he sees her lips begin to move.

“You—” she says, and cuts herself off. The two others standing with her turn to look at him.

One is a dark-skinned girl.

The other is Aris.

Even from this distance, Thomas can see just how bad Aris’s face looks. He has a black eye and various other bruises.

He makes eye contact with Thomas and immediately jogs over.

“You shouldn't be awake yet. Mary will _kill_ me if she knows you're out of bed,” he says, looking him up and down. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” he says, even as a muscle in his side tightens painfully. “What happened to your face?”

Aris snorts and shakes his head. “It was worse a few days ago.”

“What happened?” Thomas repeats, an edge of impatience slipping into his voice.

Aris grins. It throws Thomas off, to the point where he actually finds himself speechless.

_How can he look so happy when our world is so fucked?_

“Your, uh… You've been out for about four weeks now, and your friends wanted to know how we knew each other. So about two nights ago, I told them everything that happened.”

“Everything?” Thomas quips.

“ _Everything_ ,” Aris confirms. “Once Newt made the connection that I was the one who put all those bruises on your face a few months back, he, well...put a few on mine. Said the only reason he wasn't putting a bullet in my leg was because I also helped _save_ you.”

Aris laughs, and the sound of it is more disorienting than the music.

“Where is he?” Thomas asks weakly, and Aris’s smile softens.

“Honestly? Sleeping,” he says. “Minho put his foot down last night. I bet they'll both be sleeping for a while.”

A realization strikes Thomas, and he blames it on the fact that he was shot that it took him so long to process it.

“Wait,” he falters. “Did you say I was unconscious for _four_ _weeks_?”

Aris nods. “And you should still be in bed. We got Mary and that Clint guy from your group to patch you up, but it was really touch and go for a while. Mary had to revive you twice, and Minho downright _refused_ to let anyone tell Newt that. He still doesn't know.”

Thomas opens his mouth, and all that comes out is a long rush of breath.

Aris pats him on his uninjured shoulder. “Go lay back down, get some sleep. When you wake up, I'll send Newt in.”

Thomas looks past Aris at the two girls he’d been speaking to. He notices that they're holding hands, and he gestures to them.

“Who’re they?” he asks. The blonde girl is sparing him glances every few seconds.

“That's Sonya and Harriet,” Aris says. “They were the first two people to trust me when I joined the Right Arm.”

Thomas balks. “Right Arm? _The_ Right Arm?”

“The one and only,” Aris says.

“So, what prompted the change of heart?” he asks abruptly. He motions to Aris. “Why suddenly so against WICKED?”

Aris shuffles his feet, expression suddenly uncomfortable. He scratches the side of his head. “How about you go lay down and I tell you?”

Thomas just looks at him.

Aris sighs. “Okay, fine. Look, Thomas, I never really _loved_ WICKED in the first place. That was Teresa. Then she tried telling me to give my life up for a cure, and call me a coward, but I couldn't do that. So I ran. Grabbed my bag and left the day before we meant to get back to WICKED’s camp.”

“Is everyone alive?” Thomas asks. He's not proud of the waver in his voice, but he knew the question would come up eventually. “I mean, besides…”

And he can't say it.

Aris knows who he's talking about, and he nods. “Yeah, all of your group is fine. In fact, turns out, there's actually a guy here that used to be with you guys, but left.”

“Who?” Thomas asks, chewing at his lip. Being on his feet for so long is beginning to really take a toll on his energy, and Aris seems to catch it.

“Winston,” he says. “He pretty much broke down when he saw Clint and Minho and the rest.”

Thomas makes a noise of acknowledgment, but even with the steady breeze, he feels sweat starting to break out on his forehead, and he swallows against a dry throat.

“Go lay down,” Aris says, nodding to the tent. “I'll wake you when Newt gets up.”

Aris doesn't wake him up. A nightmare does.

He jerks awake, sucks in a sharp breath from the pain that temporarily overwhelms him.

It fades quickly as he sits upright, and Thomas only wishes the same could be said for the memory of his dream.

Blood. Bullets. And pain, so much _pain_ , but for once, it isn't his.

He hears voices and focuses on those, rather than the burn behind his eyes and the blur in his vision. He hiccups, and hearing his own stuttering breaths and thudding heart almost makes him break down completely.

Voices. The voices, right.

He stares down at his lap and concentrates on those.

 _Newt’s_ , Thomas thinks. _That's whose pants these are. They're Newt’s._

A sudden bout of group laughter cuts through the air, and Thomas struggles to push himself to his feet because he _needs_ to replace the images of blood and agony in his head with something else, even though the laughs and cheerful whoops conflict with his own inner turmoil enough to make him feel physically sick.

Or maybe that's just because he was shot.

He leaves the tent. The sky is dimming, and the heat of the day has left with the sun. The horizon is a golden, glowing mixture of pastel pink and blue.

He thinks of cotton candy.

Another round of laughter breaks out, and Thomas looks towards it. There's a large bonfire, and there's an insane amount of people gathered around it, smiling and joking and just...being _happy_.

Thomas turns around and only manages to stumble a few feet towards the trees before he has to stop, _just stop._

He holds his stomach, fearful that he might puke, an act which would surely be painful.

He grits his teeth, throat tightening, and forces himself to take a breath.

Then another, slower this time.

The dangerous churning of his stomach fades, leaving Thomas shaky and weak and looking stupidly into the woods, getting eaten alive by mosquitos.

A large, fallen tree marks the border between the field and the forest. Thomas sits on it and scans the trees, looking for some hint of familiarity.

He finds none.

The leaves on many of the trees aren't even green, but a fierce yellow or harsh red color.

He chooses not to think about what that means.

He listens to the chirping crickets and crackling of the fire instead, attempting to tune out the voices and only being half-successful.

Footsteps crunch through the dirt patches, approaching him, and he tenses, all too-aware that he's weaponless.

He fixes his eyes on a large tree in front of him, gaze set even as the person steps over the log and sits down next to him.

Thomas reigns in his curiosity for about two minutes. Then he looks over. His stomach twists, and he clenches his jaw.

The tears refuse to come. An empty ache resides in his chest instead, and, somehow, that’s even worse.

“I’m...I’m sorry about Chuck.”

“Me too,” Thomas manages. Gally glances over at him and quickly resumes looking out into the woods, but Thomas sees something in his face.

Gally looks _broken._

“You know I had to do it, right?” Gally says, then winces at his words. Thomas can't stop staring at him.

Gally swallows, drags a hand through his hair, and continues. His voice takes on a desperate tone, as if seeking redemption. “He just… I _had_ to do it. Or else he would've suffered and he was in so much pain and, and I couldn't just _leave_ him there like that.”

But the thing is, Thomas _gets_ it. He understands completely.

If he wasn't such a coward, he'd have done it too.

“I know,” is all Thomas can choke out.

He doesn't think.

Instead he reaches into his pocket with fumbling fingers and uses his free hand to grab Gally’s wrist, forcing his palm open.

Thomas presses the hunk of wood into Gally's hand and draws back, pressing his hands together in his lap.

Gally looks at him.

“He made it. You...it'll do you more good than it'll do me,” Thomas says, voice raw with emotion.

Gally opens his mouth. “But—”

And Thomas stands and walks back to his tent. He leaves the tent flap wide open and lays on the cot, but doesn't sleep.

A bitingly cold breeze sweeps inside the tent, and the thin blanket Thomas has does little to warm him.

He remembers what Aris told him, that he had been unconscious for four weeks.

He thinks about the color of the leaves.

The weather is already changing. It must be autumn, or fast-approaching it.

 _Four weeks_ , he thinks. Four had always been his unlucky number, back when things were normal.

He broke his arm at the park under his father’s watch when he was four, and his parents had gotten into _The Fight_ and nearly were divorced over it.

He had been four seconds behind the kid who placed first at the mile-run during gym class in seventh grade. He was four points from getting an A on his math final freshman year _and_ sophomore year, in two different schools.

_Four._

Thomas hates the number four.

He gets up, impatiently waves away the twinge in his side, and wraps the blanket around his shoulders, prompting another bolt of pain that he pays little attention to.

He ducks out of the tent and stands outside. The breeze is beginning to pick up into more of a wind, and he hears a distant rumble of thunder that can't be a good sign.

The fire is still burning, albeit faintly. He walks over and folds himself into one of the empty chairs. He stares at the small flicker of the flames, the orange glow providing a solid warmth that seeps into his bones.

Thomas falls asleep, mind blissfully empty save for the crackling of the fire.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, he's thrown off by the unfamiliar coloring of the canvas above him. The tent is a dark green, and he knows right then that he's not in the same tent he's been in (for _four weeks_ , apparently).

The storm is over them now. The rain patters down on the tent, punctuated by the occasional roll of thunder.

Thomas doesn't have to look to know it's gloomy and dreary outside, despite it being past morning.

He notes that he's not on a cot, but a blow-up mattress.

Hushed voices.

He turns his head towards them.

It's a rather large tent. One that could probably sleep about ten people.

Frypan. Minho. Brenda. The two girls, Sonya and Harriet. And Newt.

They're all gathered in a close-knit circle, arguing quietly. Minho, his back facing Thomas, throws his hands into the air, and Thomas sees the two cards in his hands.

“Two fours,” Frypan says.

“Bullshit,” Brenda replies from across the circle without pause. She has at least half of the deck in her hand. Frypan curses and takes the pile of cards in the middle.

Minho’s turn is next.

“One five,” he claims, lying the card down.

“He's lying, he just played a two and his other card is a seven,” Thomas announces.

The tent goes painfully silent. Frypan and Minho spin around to look at him, and everyone else is already staring.

Thomas hesitates, but smiles. “Uh, hey.”

Harriet is the first to react. She slaps the card in the middle and slides it back towards Minho.

“Bullshit,” she says, and Minho jumps, turning back to her.

“What?” he cries. “But, but that's not fair! Thomas totally just told you my cards!”

“Sucks to suck, I guess,” Brenda says through a wicked grin. She plays three sixes, and no one is ballsy enough to call her on it.

The game continues as if he's never interrupted, though now their whispers have risen to shouts.

Thomas watches with amusement as Sonya attempts to argue the fact that she _did_ play a seven, thank you very much, and Minho calls bullshit anyway.

Sonya flips it to show the seven of diamonds. Minho takes the card, grumbling.

Thomas doesn't even notice the sudden absence from the circle until the mattress dips down beside him.

He looks over at a smile so soft, it's barely there.

“Hey,” Newt says.

“Hi,” Thomas answers, just as quietly.

They stare at each other for a long, long stretch of time.

Newt blinks.

“I win,” Thomas whispers, and he takes the cards from Newt’s hand, looking at them.

“One jack,” he says aloud, and tosses the card into the circle.

“Dude, you're on _nines_ ,” Minho points out.

“Oh,” Thomas says. Then grins. “Guess that means Newt forfeits.”

“That is _definitely_ not how that works,” Harriet snorts. But no one actually argues when Newt stands and helps Thomas to his feet, and they slip out of the tent.

Mud seeps in between Thomas's toes. The rain is freezing, yet it somehow feels incredibly nice.

Newt drags him over to the tent Thomas recognizes, shoves him inside.

“You're _so_ gonna get sick,” Newt says. “Mary’s gonna _kill_ me.”

Thomas shrugs, and it hurts.

“Here. Gotta change your bandages if they're wet. And you need dry clothes. And shoes,” Newt continues. Thomas just smiles and allows him to fuss, digging through the large duffel bag in the corner and dragging out a shirt and socks and pants and a roll of gauze.

Newt helps him out of his wet shirt and pants. He removes the damp gauze.

“Déjà vu,” Thomas says as Newt begins rewrapping his injuries.

Newt smirks and shakes his head. “Stop getting hurt and I won't need to keep doin’ this.”

“Not a chance,” Thomas says. He sits down on the edge of the cot and uses the old gauze the wipe the mud from his feet.

Once he's done, he pulls on the socks and Newt helps him into the new tee shirt.

“Too small?” Newt asks. “I think it was Minho’s at one point.”

Thomas pulls at the hem. “Nah. It's a little big, actually.”

Newt makes a humming noise and turns to grab the jeans he laid out.

Thomas crinkles his nose at the sight of them.

“It's raining and you're in a pair of boxers, Tommy. You should probably put the jeans on.”

Thomas pretends to think about it.

“No,” he says after a long pause. He motions to the blanket at the end of the cot. It's the same one he dragged out to the fire. He wonders how it ended up back in here. He also wonders how he ended up in the other tent.

“The blanket will keep me warm,” he argues.

Newt quirks an eyebrow. “There's so many holes in that thing that it can barely be classified as a _blanket_.”

Thomas concedes, then stands. “Okay, you have a point.”

“So you're putting the pants on,” Newt confirms.

Thomas moves his hand, grabbing the folded pair of jeans and slowly taking them from Newt. He sets them on the cot and shakes his head.

“I don't need pants to keep me warm,” he says.

Newt blinks, then props his hands on his hips. “How so?”

Thomas steps forward and gently takes Newt’s wrists. He pulls Newt’s hands forward and rests them on his own hips instead.

Thomas looks up at him. “I'm sure you can guess.”

Newt hesitates. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” Thomas assures. Then leans up and presses his lips to Newt’s cheek. “I don't think you're capable of hurting me.”

The hesitation is still there, even as Newt brings his hands up to cup Thomas's jaw and kisses him.

It's achingly gentle, nothing more than a soft press of lips against his own, and Newt draws back.

“Tommy, I don't—”

“I'll let you know if it starts to hurt,” Thomas cuts in. He settles his hands on Newt’s sides, fingers rubbing against the soft fabric of his shirt. “I promise.”

Newt kisses him again, soft and slow and sweet. He tastes of cigarette smoke and stale morning breath.

Another kiss, and it's everything they haven't said.

It's ‘ _thank god you’re okay._ ’

It's ‘ _I missed you so much._ ’

It's ‘ _I’m so sorry for what happened._ ’

It's—

“I love you,” Newt whispers.

Thomas doesn't even know he's crying until Newt thumbs away the tears and asks him what's wrong in a voice so tender and concerned, Thomas just _shatters_.

Newt holds him as he cries. He rubs his back and shushes him and whispers, “It's all right, it's okay, I've got you, love, it's okay.”

They stand there for a long time. Thomas's sobs slowly diminish to an occasional hiccup, then deep, shaky breaths. He presses his face into the crook of Newt’s neck and shoulder and breathes him in.

He smells like campfire smoke and sweat.

Thomas exhales, long and slow, shuddering.

“I'm sorry,” he says, and his voice is a raspy mess, muffled into Newt’s shirt.

“Don't be,” Newt says, and he turns his head to kiss Thomas’s hair. “Would you like to sit?”

Thomas nods, forehead bumping against Newt’s collarbone, and instead of taking the cot, Newt simply lowers them until they're on the ground. Thomas folds himself into Newt’s lap and they sit.

The rain becomes a background noise to the silence inside the tent.

“Hey, Newt?”

“Yeah, Tommy?”

“I love you, too.”

Newt’s voice is colored with amusement, and he huffs out a quiet laugh. “I know.”

Thomas takes one of Newt’s hands in his own and traces the lines in his palm, the rough calluses. He twines their fingers together.

Newt squeezes his hand.

“You all right?” he asks.

“No,” Thomas says. Then squeezes back. “But I think I'm going to be.”

* * *

The next few days pass in a blur of activity.

Thomas meets Mary, and subsequently ends up being mostly confined to his cot, because according to her, he's not anywhere _near_ fully healed yet, and he shouldn't be walking around.

Still, each day someone visits him and informs him about what's going on, be it Newt or Minho or Frypan or Brenda or even Gally.

After two days of lying around doing nothing, Mary deems him well enough to walk around camp.

Which is how he finds Winston.

Aris never mentioned anything besides the fact that Winston was there. Because of this, Thomas hadn't been expecting him to look any different.

He's certainly not proud of the little scream that escapes his lips when Winston turns to look at him.

Half of his face is a mess of scratches and cuts and stitches and scars, all in various stages of healing. He's missing patches of hair. His left eye is missing entirely.

Winston ducks his head, and that's when Thomas realizes that he'd been staring.

“Sorry,” he says, quickly. He gestures vaguely in Winston’s direction. “I just...I wasn't expecting…”

He also doesn't know how to phrase it without sounded like a complete, insensitive jerk.

Winston nods. “I know, it's okay. I, uh...I'm immune. Found that out.”

Thomas smiles, and he truly hopes it doesn't look too forced.

“Yeah,” Winston continues. “I, uh...it was scary.”

Thomas feels his smile become more genuine. “I'm glad you're okay, Winston.”

“Same here, man. Good to know that not even getting shot can take you out,” he says, and it takes Thomas a second to register that he's _joking._

Thomas waves him off. “Hey, you know me. Always getting hurt one way or another.”

Winston’s expression sobers. “Yeah, you are.”

Thomas opens his mouth to speak, perhaps to justify himself, but Winston continues.

“No, I mean,” he says quickly, “I, uh, I just mean that you always seem willing to put yourself in danger before anyone else. Even strangers.”

Once again, Thomas opens his mouth, but he has no clue how to reply.

“Just don't get yourself killed for someone who's not worth it, okay?”

Thomas nods, and Winston takes this as a dismissal, walking over to where Clint and Fry and arguing over something unimportant.

 _His face_ , Thomas thinks. _A Crank did that to him. How did he_ survive _that?_

Thomas spends to next two days pondering, and eventually asks Mary when she's mid-checkup.

“Hey Mary? I have a question, about Winston.”

Mary pauses. “So you saw his face, then?”

Thomas nods.

“Let me guess, you want to know how he lived through such trauma?”

Again, Thomas nods.

“Clint told me you like to ask questions,” she muses. Then hastes to continue once she sees Thomas's offended expression. “It's not a bad thing, don't worry.”

“So?” Thomas persists.

“He shouldn't have,” Mary says. “Honestly, I'm not sure _how_ he managed to pull through. But then, I still don't know how _you_ did, either. I'm actually beginning to wonder if you Munies are stronger than just being immune to the virus.”

She continues. "In fact, I've noticed that more of you younger kids are immune than the older generations. I'm curious as to why that is."

“‘Munies’?” Thomas says.

“Immunes,” Mary explains. “It's just a name that we've coined, I suppose. Now hold still so I can wrap this.”

But Thomas is already still, lost in his thoughts.

* * *

A few days later, Newt decides to show Thomas around the camp and introduce him to everyone, starting with a face Thomas recognizes.

“Tommy, this is Sonya.”

Thomas smiles at her. “Yeah. I've seen you around.”

Sonya and Newt exchange looks. There's a certain glint to Newt’s eye that Thomas isn't so sure he likes.

“What aren't you telling me?” Thomas deadpans, entirely exhausted of unnecessary secrets.

“She's my sister,” Newt answers, in a voice just as deadpan. The only difference is the bright smile cutting across his lips.

Thomas gapes at Sonya, then looks at Newt. The resemblance is uncanny. The blond hair, gentle features, British accent.

Thomas smacks his forehead. “I should've realized. You two look _so_ similar.”

“That makes sense,” Sonya nods. “Considering we're siblings.”

“Same sense of humor, too,” Thomas snorts. “Nice.”

“Have you met Harriet?” Sonya asks, tilting her head to the side.

“Not yet,” Thomas answers.

Sonya grins. “Come with me.”

She grabs his wrist and leads him across the camp to another tent.

 

This is how he spends the rest of his morning, being ushered around the camp by Newt to meet everyone.

He introduces Thomas to Joe. He's a quirky, likeable guy, only a few years older than Thomas. It doesn't take long to see that Newt and Joe are rather close already, which probably occurred during the weeks Thomas was unconscious.

Not that he's jealous. After all, he has no reason to be.

Next, Newt drags him across camp to meet Vince, the leader of the Right Arm.

Then Josh.

Then Bernard.

Then Matt.

And on and on.

It isn't long before Thomas’s thoughts are swirling in an attempt to remember all the names.

After lunch, Minho snatches him away from Newt and, in an attempt to one-up him, leads him to a group of girls, one reading a book and two in a heated conversation about something.

“This is Jess and Anne. The one reading is Micky,” Minho says, and the two girls look up, squinting at the sun behind him. Micky continues reading.

“Oh hey, Minho,” one says.

“How's your wrist, Anne?” he asks.

“Can't complain,” she shrugs. She raises an arm to block to sunlight, and Thomas would be blind not to notice the black brace around her wrist.

He gestures to it. “What happened?”

She frowns, then snorts when she realizes what he's talking about. “This?” she says, and holds out her arm.

Thomas nods.

“Nothing special,” Anne says. “It's just been bugging me.”

“I did _tell you_ to take it easy on the throwing knives. But _no_ , you couldn't listen to me,” Jess snorts, shaking her head.

“So what are you guys talking about?” Minho asks eagerly.

Jess chokes out a laugh behind her hand.

“Definitely not something you'd care about,” she says, smiling.

“Oh c’mon, now you _have_ to tell me,” Minho wheedles, and that's the moment that Thomas realizes Minho is friends with these girls.

 _Four weeks is more than enough time for friendships to form_ , he thinks.

“You wanna know?” Anne asks.

“Is that not what I just said?”

“We’re talking about the book Micky’s reading, actually, and who we ship the main character with the most.”

Minho blinks. “Well. You were right. It's _definitely_ not something I care about. And here I thought you two were arguing.”

Jess grins. “We were agreeing, actually.”

“Okay, well, you two get back to…” Minho gestures to them vaguely, “ _that_ , and I'm gonna mess with Micky.”

“She's reading,” Anne states.

“Why thank you, Captain Obvious,” Minho says in an exaggerated voice.

Anne and Jess exchange looks.

“Okay. Interrupt her. It'll be your funeral,” Jess says, shrugging.

Minho raises his eyebrows and steps over to the third girl.

“You do realize I can hear you, right?” Micky says, not even sparing a glance up from the page she's on.

“What're you reading?” Minho asks. He receives no answer.

Thomas clears his throat in an attempt to disguise his laugh and is taken by surprise when the girl looks up at him.

“Uh, what're you reading?” Thomas says. Micky stares at him for a long moment. Then she rolls her eyes and displays the front cover of the book.

“ _The Maze Runner_ ,” Thomas reads. “What's that about?”

“I wouldn't know, I'm literally three chapters in.”

Thomas looks at Minho. “Dude, how much time have you been spending with them?”

Minho frowns. “What do you mean?”

“They're all…” Thomas waves a hand, “ _sassy_. Obviously you're rubbing off on them.”

Micky’s eyes return to the book, and Thomas can't decide whether the smirk on her face is more amused or proud.

Minho nudges Thomas’s good shoulder. “Okay, c’mon. Let's let her read. I don't want to wake up without clothes again.”

Thomas’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Micky snickers under her breath.

Minho rubs his eyes.

“I was messing with her and Jess and Anne and they said something to Fry and Winston. The next morning I woke up in my underwear, with no clothes in my tent. I had to run across the camp in my undies to Fry’s tent to get my stuff back.”

Thomas lets out a long breath and looks over the three girls.

“Girls are _crazy_.”

Minho nods, expression solemn.

“Amen to that, brother.”

* * *

A month later and they're loading up all of the vehicles to hit the road.

“So what exactly is the plan again?” Thomas asks, standing back to watch Newt do all of the heavy lifting that he himself is not allowed to partake in.

“Well,” Newt says, shoving another duffel bag in the bed of the truck, “the idea is to get somewhere that the cold won't hit us so bad. Maybe find some houses to stay in.”

Thomas rubs his hands together in an attempt to bring the warmth back to them. “And we're staying with the Right Arm.”

Newt huffs out a breath and turns to look at him.

“You heard what Mary said.” Newt nods in the direction of Vince’s truck. “She doesn't want us taking off until you're healed up.”

“That's going to be _months_ , Newt,” Thomas groans.

This isn't a new argument. In fact, Thomas has brought up the idea of leaving multiple times, but in his time of unconsciousness, his leadership had apparently been revoked and bestowed upon Minho.

“Why d’you want to leave so bad?” Newt asks, and Thomas gives him the same answer he gave him last time.

“There's just too many of us. It's not safe to travel with this many people in one group.”

Newt shakes his head and hops down from the bed of Joe’s truck, dusting his hands off on his pants. “You heard Vince. Once we find somewhere decent, we’ll settle. Then traveling won't be an issue.”

Thomas presses his lips together and lets it go.

Newt helps him up into the backseat of Joe’s truck. Jess is riding shotgun, but she's already asleep, feet propped up on the dash.

Thomas doesn't buckle up. It would do more harm than good, what with the way the seatbelt would dig into his shoulder.

Newt acts as a makeshift seatbelt, arm around Thomas’s waist to hold him still, hand resting gently on his side.

Thomas holds in his winces on the bumps and doesn't complain.

 

Altogether, they have a train of six vehicles, with Joe’s truck bringing up the rear.

Really, Thomas does his best not to think about the alarming number of people with them.

How easy they would be to spot.

Minho had been the one to inform him that they managed to go back for both the van and the truck they'd left at the campsite, and that they'd cleared out the campers of all the supplies.

When Thomas asked about the car, Winston told him it had been lost to the Cranks.

The rest of the day, Winston had been quiet and withdrawn.

Thomas didn't — and won't — bring it up again.

The tire of the truck dips down into a large hole in the road, and Thomas can't tamp down the hiss of pain at the jolting motion.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Joe says. “I'm trying to go around them.”

“It's fine,” Thomas assures.

He refuses to meet Newt’s hard stare and instead focuses his gaze out the dirty window.

They drive for hours, only stopping to fill up on gas and stretch their legs.

Sonya and Harriet ask to switch with Thomas and Newt, leaving them in the van with Anne, Josh, Clint, and Gally, who's driving.

Thomas struggles to sleep with the constant movement of the van, still awake long after the sun has set and Gally is the only other person not sleeping.

Newt is slouched beside him, head lolling over onto Josh’s shoulder.

“You want to leave,” Gally says.

Thomas barely keeps himself from shrugging and clears his throat.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Gally asks.

“We can't stay here forever,” Thomas answers, staring at the back of Gally’s headrest. “I mean, we _technically_ can, but...it doesn't feel safe to me.”

“So you're going to leave.”

“Maybe,” Thomas says. “I still have to convince Newt and hopefully some of you guys to come with me.”

“What's so bad about staying here?” Gally asks, sounding genuinely curious. “It's the safest option we've had for a long time. Why should we have to leave?”

“You don't have to come if you don't want to,” Thomas points out. He looks down, picking at his nails. “If I can't get anyone else to come, I'll just...go by myself, I guess.”

“Like hell you are.” The voice makes Thomas jump. It's raspy and thick from sleep, and Newt shifts beside him as he sits upright. “If you want to go that bad, I'll come, but you aren't going _anywhere_ alone.”

Thomas turns and presses a kiss to his sleep-mussed hair. “We can talk about it later. Go back to sleep.”

Newt grumbles, but he doesn't need to be told twice. He's back out within minutes.

Thomas thinks their conversation is very much over, when Gally speaks up again, voice soft.

“Settling down and being safe is just too easy for you, isn't it.”

“Yeah.” Thomas looks out the window and laces his fingers with Newt’s. “Something like that.”

“He's worried about his sister. You realize that, right?”

“Yeah Gally, I know,” Thomas sighs. Gally’s eyes meet his in the rear view mirror.

“Then stop forcing him to choose between the two people he loves.”

Thomas's heart stutters in his chest.

Instead of sleeping, he thinks about Gally’s words until the sun rises.

* * *

They find the perfect place four days later, when snow flurries are just beginning to float through the air and the ground is covered in a layer of glittering frost first thing in the morning.

Thomas isn't even sure what state they're in anymore, but he does know that they're in the mountains.

There are cabins dotted around the place, far enough apart to be practical, but still rather close together.

They dispose of the eleven Cranks hiding out in the cabins with experienced ease.

It's Brenda who suggests staying.

“We've got a stream of running water, buildings, and if the soil’s good, a place to grow food. This could be perfect,” she says.

Vince doesn't need much convincing. Nor does anyone else.

Thomas pairs up with Newt to inspect one of the cabins, and Newt has this smile on his face that Thomas wants to see more often. Would do _anything_ to see more often.

So he doesn't bring up leaving again.

And they stay.

 

 

The coldest days of the winter are spent huddling indoors, most of the group crammed into one cabin to play a card game or a round of Charades.

One day in particular, Thomas is digging through his bag in search of his matches, when his fingers stumble across something hard and unyielding. He wraps his hand around it and tugs it free.

It's Chuck’s figurine.

Despite the way his heart begins to pound and his stomach twists, he smiles and tucks it back in his bag, right alongside his keychain.

They pass the time with Newt telling Thomas stories about his and Minho’s time in high school together, and Thomas telling Newt about the things he misses most: his parents, his dog Bark, pizza, the internet, music, and chocolate.

A week later, Newt surprises him with two packets of hot chocolate powder.

He refuses to tell him where he found them.

In retaliation, he talks to Sonya and manages to find a gift of his own.

Newt freezes when he steps into the cabin and is struck with the scent of vanilla.

He turns and looks at Thomas, eyes wide.

“You…”

“Sonya told me you used to love candles,” Thomas shrugs. “She said you really liked ‘warm’ smells.”

He frowns slightly. “I wasn't sure what that meant, but I figured vanilla was probably a safe guess.”

Newt chokes out a laugh through his tears and hugs Thomas hard enough to bring tears to his own eyes.

He hugs him back twice as hard.

 

 

When spring descends, Newt grabs Thomas and Sonya, and together, the three of them manage to successfully plant the packets of seeds Frypan has saved.

There are no actual flowers growing, but Newt picks the prettiest weeds he can find and braids them into Sonya’s hair during their break.

Then he tucks one behind Thomas's ear, and it refuses to stay in place as they work, but Newt just keeps putting it back, despite Minho jokingly poking fun at them for it.

It makes Thomas smile.

Later, when Newt is telling him about how he and his mother and Sonya used to garden, Thomas dozes off to the smell of grass and sweat and soil and the sound of Newt’s voice.

The next day, Minho emerges from his cabin red-faced and clad in only his boxers. He's shouting for Frypan.

“You're welcome.”

Thomas turns and his eyes meet Micky’s.

He grins and high-fives her.

“Don't give her all the credit!” Jess shouts, walking over with Anne in tow. “I'm the one who saw him making fun of you guys.”

Newt laughs. “He was just joking.”

Anne shrugs. “No one fucks with our boys.”

Neither Newt nor Thomas bother pointing out the fact that they're older than both Anne and Micky.

“We've got your back,” Micky nods. “Oh, speaking of…”

She slips something into Thomas's hand. He turns it over in his palm and frowns.

It's a small, glass jar. He recognizes it as one of Frypan’s jars of almond oil.

His frown deepens.

“Why—”

“I'm sure you'll figure out a use for it,” Anne interrupts.

“Okay, I get it, can I have my clothes back _please_?” Minho whines.

Thomas wraps his arm around Newt and grins, watching the display unfold.

He's happier than he can remember being in a long time.


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long ride. I'm so sad it's over, but I'm also so proud of myself for finishing this!

A year passes.

In that time, they only have six run-ins with Cranks, the majority of which are small groups of two or three that wandered into camp.

The rest of the encounters occur during supply runs into town.

It's only because of the shocking lack of Crank activity that Newt agrees to let Thomas come on the run with him, Gally, and Minho.

They take Joe’s truck down the mountain and drive the fifteen miles into town.

“Okay,” Minho says, throwing the truck in _Park_ and sliding the keys into his pocket. “We've got the day to look around. Anything we need in specific?”

“New clothes, especially pants. And socks, we always need socks,” Newt says.

“Anything else?” Minho says. He fiddles with the watch on his wrist, squinting to check the time.

Joe somehow managed to fix it months prior.

“Batteries,” Thomas interjects. “We’re running low.”

“Okay,” Gally nods. “We’ll keep a look out.”

“You two.” Minho points between Thomas and Newt. “Keep it in your pants until we get home.”

Thomas rolls his eyes and adjusts the straps of his backpack.

“But hey.”

Thomas turns to Minho, quirking an eyebrow in question.

Minho fixes his gaze on Thomas, seriousness etched into his features. “Be careful out there, all right?”

“We will,” Thomas says, nodding.

He and Newt set off into the small town, separating from Gally and Minho. The first building they check is an abandoned house that's already been stripped clean.

Thomas considers suggesting that they check the vehicles lining the road, but decides against it.

He remembers all too well what happened last time.

Instead they try house after house, grabbing anything they deem useful and tossing it into their bags.

They decide on looking into a garage and find that there's a spot for an attic. Newt pulls the string on the ceiling and, sure enough, a ladder unfolds.

It's too dark to see anything.

Thomas rummages around in his bag for his flashlight. His fingers wrap around the cool plastic and he flicks the switch on the side, illuminating the contents of his bag.

He moves to draw the flashlight out, to shine it around the room, when the gleam catches on something crinkled and bright white.

He pulls it out.

His heart clenches in his chest.

The paper is torn and crinkled and almost impossible to read, but he knows what it is.

Teresa's note. The one she gave him before she and Aris left.

Thomas attempts to smooth it out, but only succeeds in nearly tearing it in half. He stares at the paper, unsure what to do with it.

“Whatcha got there, Tommy?”

“I, uh… I don't really know,” he says. He moves to tuck the paper into his pocket, but Newt stops him, grabbing his elbow.

He takes the paper from Thomas’s fingers and scans it over. A frown creases his brow in the dim light.

“This is the note she left you?”

Thomas nods. Newt flips it to look at the back, then flips it to the front.

“Okay, then,” he says. He holds it out to Thomas. “Do you still want it?”

“I mean, not really,” Thomas says after a small pause. “There's no reason to keep it.”

Newt nods and pushes it into Thomas’s hands.

“Do with it what you will,” he says, and snags Thomas’s flashlight from him to shine it around the attic.

Thomas looks at the note.

He completes the rip, pulling it into two pieces. Then he tears it again.

And again.

And again.

He stands and allows the small pieces to flutter to the dusty floor.

When he looks over, Newt is smiling at him.

“I'm proud of you,” he says. Thomas snorts and joins him in looking around.

“I didn't do anything,” Thomas laughs, shifting a box.

Newt shrugs. “Still allowed to be proud of ya.”

Thomas shakes his head, but he's smiling.

 

“Let’s check this one,” Newt says, looking up at a two-story building with the front door barricaded shut. “Doesn't look like anyone’s gotten in.”

“Okay,” Thomas agrees. If none of their group has managed to get into the building, it's much more likely for them to find supplies inside.

Thomas cracks his knuckles.

“How are we supposed to get in?” Newt asks. Thomas frowns over at him.

“ _You_ suggested this house,” he points out. “I figured you had an idea?”

“You're supposed to be the smart one,” Newt says.

“Then what does that make you?” Thomas asks, walking around the house. Newt follows after him.

“The nice one, obviously,” Newt replies. Thomas huffs out a laugh and steps up to a small window.

He pulls at the latches, but it's locked tightly in place.

“C’mon,” Newt says. “Let’s check around the back. There might be another door.”

There is indeed another door. The barricade on this one is shoddy at best, and between Thomas and Newt, it only takes about fifteen minutes to move everything enough to slip inside.

“I can't believe it's barricaded but not _locked_ ,” Newt snorts. “I mean, who _does_ that?”

“Stupid people,” Thomas agrees, stepping into the hall. He looks around, noting the various picture frames on the wall and untouched furniture.

“I don't think anyone’s been in here since the start of the Outbreak,” Thomas says.

“Neat. More stuff for us, then,” Newt states, and Thomas rolls his eyes.

They step into the living room, and that's when Thomas spots the staircase.

“Clothes are probably in the rooms upstairs,” Thomas points out. “But we should check the kitchen first.”

Newt claps him on the shoulder. “See, this is why you're the smart one.”

Thomas grins and snatches Newt’s wrist before he can pull his hand away. He turns and brings his hands up to Newt’s jaw, pulling him into a kiss.

Newt makes a small noise in the back of his throat.

Just before it can get heated, Newt pulls away.

“Give me a little warning next time, Tommy,” Newt says, breathless. “Bloody hell.”

Thomas laughs and takes Newt’s hand, pulling him into the small kitchen.

Thomas moves toward the pantry, but is stopped by Newt tightening his grip on his hand and pulling him back.

Thomas stumbles slightly, turns around to ask, but is stopped by a pair of lips on his own.

He falls into the kiss with ease, hands settling against Newt’s sides as he tips his head up.

This time it's Thomas who pulls away first, breath coming out in shaky puffs.

Newt smirks.

“That's your idea of revenge?” Thomas asks. He shakes his head. “ _Weak_.”

Newt raises his eyebrows.

Thomas does as well.

Newt’s darts his tongue out to lick his lips, and Thomas isn't even given the opportunity to copy him before he's being pushed against the wall and drawn into a searing kiss.

Newt presses against him, thigh to chest. A shocked squeak passes Thomas's lips, and Newt pulls away.

Thomas's eyes fly open.

Newt is positively beaming.

Thomas presses his lips together and wills the sudden hotness to leave his cheeks.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, attempting half-heartedly to push Newt away.

Newt’s grin stays. “I didn't say anything.”

“No, but your face did,” Thomas says.

“I thought it was cute.”

“You thought it was…” Thomas huffs a breath and shakes his head, but the mortification fades. “We should look around.”

And they do.

Though it takes them entirely too long to finish clearing out the kitchen, as every time Newt finds something, Thomas rewards him with a kiss, and vice versa.

“C’mon, we should check upstairs. Clothes and stuff,” Thomas says, gesturing vaguely toward the staircase.

Newt laces their fingers together and Thomas pulls him up the stairs behind him.

“So, you take this room, I take the next one?” Newt suggests once they reach the top of the landing. Thomas hums an agreement and squeezes Newt’s hand once before letting go.

“What do you think Minho and Gally have found?” Thomas asks, testing the knob on the door. It twists, unlocked, and he presses the door open.

“I dunno,” Newt says. Thomas hears him open the next door down the hall. “Nothing good, probably.”

Thomas snorts.

“I mean,” Newt continues, “it's not like—”

His voice cuts off with a sharp cry that sends Thomas's heart plummeting.

Because it's not just a cry of shock.

It's a cry of pain.

“Newt!” Thomas yells, and he darts out of the room. He stumbles, shoe catching on a fold in the carpet, and he nearly pitches himself over the side of the railing and down the stairs.

He rights himself and bolts into the next room, looking around the room wildly. Newt is standing over the body of a Crank, his back to Thomas.

The bloody dagger in his hand clatters to the ground.

“Newt,” Thomas says, stepping toward him cautiously. “Are you okay?”

“Shit, Thomas, I'm… I'm so sorry…” His voice is nothing more than a horrified whisper.

“Sorry for what? Are you okay?” Thomas asks, his heart beginning to race.

Newt turns around slowly.

The first thing Thomas notices is the way his eyes are bright with terror and unshed tears.

The next thing Thomas notices is that Newt is staring down at something. Thomas follows his gaze.

The final thing Thomas notices is the bite in Newt’s forearm, and the way the blood trails down his wrist and drips from his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How this ends is up to the reader, and I wrote it this way intentionally.
> 
> Is Newt immune? That's your decision.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14992973) by [Newtgitsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtgitsune/pseuds/Newtgitsune)




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